


One Step Away

by JaggedCliffs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Canon Divergence - Thor (2011), Disability, Feelings of Dehumanization, Gen, Loki thinks being a little shit will distract people from his problems, Odin's Parenting, Odin's parenting isn't A+ but it's not exactly C- either, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, and Odin's trying to improve his grade, loki's a little shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaggedCliffs/pseuds/JaggedCliffs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On one hand, Loki will do anything to make his father love him. On the other hand, Odin loves Loki, but doesn't know how to show it in a way that Loki will understand.<br/>This is the story in which no quite gets the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Odin is mostly the Thor-1!Odin, not the Your-birthright-was-to-die!Odin. Also, don't trust Loki's word on anything. He honestly doesn't have the slightest clue what's going on.  
> Tags might end up being added later, if I decide to write more chapters.

_It was almost over_.

The thought filled Loki with a giddy, breathless sort of relief as he locked Heimdall's sword into the Bifrost mechanism. Once the sword clicked into place, the whirling vortex of light grew in the far end of the Bifrost chamber. And, on that faraway frozen, monstrous realm, Loki knew there was an answering beam of light, one that would rid the Nine of those beasts forever.

Loki could only be thankful that the whole plan had proceeded with only a snag or two in his way, and those bypassed easily enough. Although he would admit his original plan had needed a _few_ modifications.

Breaking up Sif and the Warriors Three had been a small stroke of genius, if he said so himself. With Sif sent off on a long, mindless trek to convene with a secluded troop of Valkyrja, Volstagg busy with a group of rather spiteful dwarfs, Hogun on “important official business” in Vanaheim, and Fandral soothing a couple of offended nobles on Alfheim, the four of them didn't have time to conspire against him. Maybe on their own they would grumble and groan, or whine about how Thor would do a much better job as king, but there was nothing they could do about it. By the time they mustered the brains to rally against him, it would be too late. It already _was_ too late.

None could prevent his plans from coming to pass.

Not that he thought anyone would particularly _want_ to.

Why should anyone in Asgard care if all the monsters die? They should rejoice, should applaud the feat that purged the disease from Yggradsil's branches.

( _And maybe they would_.)

Certainly if Thor was here he would cheer Loki on, his only caveat that he could not murder the beasts himself.

But if Thor were here, then all this would have been impossible. Because if Thor were here, Loki would not be.

So Loki had assured Thor would remain tucked away on Midgard. Last Loki had checked, when he sat on the Hliðskjálf, Thor had been moping around with his new human friends (and of course it had taken Thor only _hours_ to discover the lot of them). Thor was still mortal, of course, but Loki doubted Father would let that stand for long. Mjolnir was _right there_ , for Yggdrasil's sake, ready to be hefted by her master at a moment's notice.

( _A master that would never be Loki_.)

And even if that moment happened to be _now_ , Thor would run into quite a bit of trouble if he attempted to return to Asgard with the Bifrost under Loki's control. No, Thor would just have to endure being stranded until it was all over.

The one problem that arose had been Heimdall – as Loki had more or less anticipated. Loki always knew the Gatekeeper was not entirely fond of him, and while Loki could have simply told him the plan, Heimdall would never have trusted Loki to carry it out in full. So Loki's only option had been to freeze the Gatekeeper, though not before he nearly took Loki's head off. Now _that_ little show of defiance had been unexpected, but seeing as Loki deliberately gave Heimdall only half the picture, Loki supposed he could not entirely blame the man. If Heimdall's suspicions had been truth, his actions might have even been justified. Any who wished to have Father murdered in his sleep deserved worse than a beheading.

(Worse than what Loki had done to Laufey.)

Surprisingly, the Gatekeeper had actually managed to free himself from the Casket's ice, slaying his two Jotun guards and then trying to make his way down the bridge. He hadn't made it far before he collapsed.

It was a magnificent effort, Loki conceded. And had saved him the trouble of killing the two Jotnar himself. But that didn't stop Loki from freezing the unconscious Gatekeeper's limbs to the bridge. One could never be too careful.

Heimdall's freedom had, with a luck Loki could hardly believe, also spelled the freedom of his sword. An ecstatic little thrill had shot through Loki as he picked up the weapon from Heimdall's limp hand, since he realized he did not have to use Gungnir and risk Father's spear if anything went wrong.

Although it would be rather fitting, for the monsters to all be vanquished by Father's weapon. After all, had that not been part of Father's plan in first place, when he locked the Casket in the vault? Jotunheim was falling apart without its heart; Loki was only hastening the process.

And using a different sort of tool to do the job.

As Loki assured that Heimdall's sword was well in place in the Bifrost's mechanism, he flicked his gaze up to the portal's swirling brilliance. The light's beauty revealed nothing of the destruction on the other end.

With one last glance at his handiwork, Loki turned and reverently picked Gungnir up from the top of the golden dais; he hadn't been able to properly insert the sword and hold the spear at the same time. Clutching it in his hands once again, Loki strolled down to the Bifrost's entrance, until his feet touched the beautiful mosaic of the Rainbow bridge. Beneath him, the colours shimmered and flashed, scintillating without rhythm or pattern.

A smile tugged at Loki's lips. He had always loved this bridge. Not just for its colours, but also for its peace, if one sat far enough away from the palace to avoid the noise and bustle. And for the stars, emerging the farther one withdrew from Asgard's sky. More than once, Loki had lain back on the bridge, hands cushioning his head, and simply stared upwards. Here, this far from Asgard, the stars would fill his vision if he looked up.

Loki did not. Twisting Gungnir in his grip so it lay on the flat of his palms, he knelt. With the utmost care, he lay Father's spear on the bridge. Gingerly, he nudged at one end, taking pains to assure that it was perpendicular to the bridge's sides.

It had to be perfect.

Still kneeling, as if before a king, Loki raised his hands to his head, to the sides of his helmet. He lifted it off and Loki felt the cool air waft against his sweat-drenched neck, his hair sticking up in tufts where it wasn't plastered to his head. He didn't bother smoothing it down as he set the helmet underneath Gungnir, near the top half of the spear, the gaping helm facing towards him.

As soon as it was placed, Loki reached up to his shoulders and grabbed the handfuls of cape nestled there. It tore easily from its fastenings. The green fabric billowed and rippled in the breeze until Loki folded it into an immaculate square.

He set it beside his helmet. A touch of magic weighed it down, so it would not float off.

Gauntlets, pauldrons, and chest-plate came next, in a neat line from right to left; tunic and undershirt, as neatly folded as his cape, were positioned just under his armour. For his boots, he had to stand up, before placing them at the bottom of the stack.

He kept his trousers on, though. He wished to keep some modesty.

With bare feet pressed against the Rainbow Bridge, Loki straightened, spread his hands about two feet apart, and twisted. The Casket of Ancient Winters blazed into existence between them. Loki kept his eyes on the bridge as he felt the blue creeping up his hands, his wrists, his arms, his chest, the hideous ridges of skin swarming with it.

The thought had crossed his mind to heave the Casket into the Bifrost's portal – it was the heart of the monsters, after all, and should die with them. But the Casket was Father's prize, not Loki's; and so it was up to Father to decide what should be done with it. If Father wished it gone, then Father need only find some other way to get rid of it.

Kneeling again, Loki set the Casket a beneath his boots, though he did not immediately draw his hands away. Instead, his touch lingering on the Casket surface, Loki memorized the feel of the magic that peeled back the Ás flesh, stripping away the spell Father had placed on him so long ago. By now, Loki knew the touch of that magic well enough to hold it. Mimicking the feeling, Loki grasped Father's spell. Then, ignoring the regret and disgust that pulsed through his heart, tore it from his body.

As Loki let go of the Casket and stood, the Ás skin did not flow back into place, did not replace the blue, did not smooth away those ridges. He remained Jotun.

He didn't need to, of course; no one would see him. But it was more appropriate.

Besides, Thor always told him he was over-dramatic.

A short laugh escaping him at the thought, one that sent a strange feeling crawling along his sides, Loki raised his blood-red ( _monster's_ ) eyes to Asgard's bright spires. Their light burned and pricked at his eyes, making them water. Loki was surprised they could; he would have thought his body too cold, and the tears would turn to ice.

The pain, on the other hand, he should have expected. It seemed obvious, in hindsight, that no monster could look on Asgard's beauty and remain unscathed.

Blinking away the tears, Loki tried to sear the sight of the golden realm into his mind. Then he turned away. Bare feet silent against the bridge, Loki walked into the Bifrost chamber.

And towards the light slowly building and growing at the other end.

This was another one of his little strokes of genius, Loki thought, crossing the obsidian floor. Although he wasn't quite sure when he came up with the idea. It just grew and grew in the quiet moments, on the throne or in his rooms, at first just a passing thought. Until it was no longer so fleeting. Until he realized there was no other way.

 _All_ the monsters had to die.

Asgard would agree with him, he knew; most would think him Jotun enough – wicked, base, and treacherous enough – that despite Asgard's teachings, this was the best course. Thor, once he learned the truth, would have it no other way. Mother may have disagreed, may have protested, but she still had Thor, and Father. Her real family.

And as for Father...if there were no Jotnar left, if there was no _Jotunheim_ left, then what use did Father have for him? Why keep a stolen relic, when it no longer had a purpose?

Loki would only be a curiosity, a failed experiment, if he lived. Nothing more. Father would rather have Loki gone, than stay and and become more of a burden than he already was.

As he padded around the dais, Heimdall's sword still embedded in the mechanism, Loki wondered if it would hurt. Or if it would as painless as a normal journey through the Bifrost.

He supposed he would find out. It was a pity he couldn't tell anyone of his findings, though he doubted it would be of interest to many. Æsir should die in battle, not take their own lives like a craven wretch. Which was simply another reason for Loki revealing his true body: if he was to die like a coward, denied entrance into Valhalla, he might as well look the proper part.

Loki would not wish to besmirch Father's name any further.

The pedestal was behind him now, and the light seemed to fill his vision, glancing rainbows off the Bifrost's interior.

Would they mourn? Or, when they discovered the truth, would they cheer?

Loki thought of Thor's declarations, that he would kill all the monsters, with his bare hands if he had to; of the older warriors' tales of the war, where the ones that garnered the most praise were the ones in which the most Jotnar died, and the more horrifically the better; of the bedtime stories told to every child in Asgard, from its peasants to its princes, with icy blue monsters that lurked in dark.

They would cheer that Loki had done the right thing, for once his wretched life.

And maybe...maybe then Father would be proud of him.

A faint smile touched his lips, until Loki felt the real thing spread across his face, accompanied by something warm unfurling in his frozen blue chest. The warmth spread with every beat of his heart, and he felt the urge to laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this...this _happiness_. This peace.

The rainbow-white light surged in front of him, and Loki stepped forward, until he could feel the energy tugging him into the Bifrost's pull. The next step would take him into its embrace.

Loki raised his bare foot–

–And jerked to a halt as strong arms wrapped around him from behind.

Loki froze. His mind blanked, the warmth in his chest turning to ash.

( _Why was he stopped? Why wasn't he moving?_ )

–There were arms around his chest and Loki recognized the armour against his skin–

“Loki, _what are you doing?_ ”

( _Father's voice_ )

–Arms pinning his own to his side, holding him bare inches from the portal–

“No,” Loki heard himself gasp.

 _No, no, no_ , this was all _wrong_ , he had been _so close_.

Loki tried to take another a step but the arms wouldn't let him.

Then they tried to drag him back.

“ _No_ ,” he screeched, surging forward against the grip. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had made _sure_ this wouldn't happen. There was no one who would _want_ to stop this from happening.

They would all rather push him in than pull him back.

“ _Loki, stop_!” The arms squeezed tighter, refusing to budge.

“ _Let me go, let me go!_ ” Loki struggled, uselessly, in those arms. If they could slacken for a moment, just enough, then everything would be fine. Everything would be _better_. “ _Please_ , please, _let me go._ ”

The arms did not. Instead, they managed to lurch him backwards, and Loki's bare feet slid out from under him, losing their purchase on the slick floor. He saw them, the blue feet with black nails and carved ridges of skin, flailing outward, the left landing with a thump against the floor. But the right continued forward until, with a horrible feeling of weightlessness, it crossed into the Bifrost's light. And, as it stretched into a streak of blue, disappeared.

Loki screamed.

It felt as if someone had taken his foot and pulled, pulled beyond its limits, pulled until it wasn't blue skin and blood and bones knit together, but their atoms, scattered and shredded, flung carelessly between here and Jotunheim. And trying to take the rest of Loki with it.

Loki could hear his name being yelled in his ear. His body was raised off the ground, the arms pressed against his chest, straining backwards.

“Stop, stop, _stop_ ,” Loki sobbed. “ _Let go, please, let go._ ” It wouldn't hurt if it all of him went through. Maybe there would be pain at the end, when the Bifrost ripped him apart like it was ripping apart Jotunheim, but it would only be for an instant. And then it would stop hurting.

(Everything would stop hurting.)

“ _Please, please, just let go_ ,” Loki pleaded.

And the arms obeyed.

They loosened, spreading apart, Loki stopped mid-scream in shock. In relief.

( _Father agreed with him._ )

Then the arms returned, wrapping under his arms, around his chest to his shoulders, and _wrenched_.

Loki felt something in his foot bending, distorting, _tearing_ – _it wasn't supposed to do, it wasn't supposed to feel like that_ – and then his feet were against solid floor. Both of them. Nothing was being squeezed or pulled. Nothing hurt like before. But his right foot felt odd.

He stared down at his feet, bewildered. Polished floor slid past the blue flesh and black nails, and one of the lumps of Jotun feet looked...off. He was peering at it while heavy, harsh pants puffed out of his mouth, when he realized he the Bifrost's light was receding.

No, no, it was _him_ , receding, being dragged backwards, away from that light.

“No,” he struggled to say. It came out more like a strangled whine. Trying again, he said, “No, no, Father stop.”

Father did not. Slick floor continued gliding past Loki's feet.

“ _Stop, stop_!” Loki shouted, twisting, kicking at the floor, eyes locked with horror on the portal that drew farther and farther away. His hands flew to upwards, desperately trying to pry off that vice-like grip around his chest, grasping at Father's armour, his gauntlet, his hands.

Only, when he reached Father's hands, the skin felt different – too coarse, and almost feverishly warm. Loki glanced down, confusion and worry tearing his eyes away from the portal–

( _Was Father injured, or drawn from the Odinsleep too early? What if it was all Loki's fault?_ )

– and when he looked, he choked on the fear clambering up his throat.

They were not _his_ hands wrapped around Father's, pulling at his arm. But a monster's, its blue paws latched onto Father's beautiful, engraved armour, its fingers digging into Father's wrinkled hands, hideous black nails gouging at the pale, warm skin. A Jotun's fists, _daring_ to attack Father, wound him, when Father could do nought to defend himself. Savage, misshapen, claws that were–

Loki's hands.

( _A monster's hands_.)

A small, hiccoughing sob escaped from between Loki's lips, and those monstrous hands – his hands – dropped to the side. His body stilled, going limped. Bile rose in his throat as his stomach heaved and churned.

(What if his skin hurt Father? What if that burning cold peeled the flesh from Father's hands, blackening and freezing them?)

“Father, stop,” he begged. “Let go, let go, please.” He didn't want to hurt Father, not with that uncontrollable cold of his Jotun skin, not with the wrongful name of _Odin's son_ that Loki could only defile.

Didn't Father understand that this was all for the best? Couldn't Father _see_ , if he just looked down, how _wrong_ it was for the All-Father to hold a Jotun in such an embrace?

“Father, _please_.”

Father said nothing. Instead, the arms around Loki shifted, and suddenly Father was walking upwards, up the stairs of the dais. To the sword holding the Bifrost open.

But why would Father go to the sword...unless he wished to remove it.

Loki felt his eyes widen. No, no, no, no, no, Father _couldn't_ , it wasn't _done_ yet.

Uncomprehending, Loki twisted his head around, craning his neck to see Father, face turned away and fixed on Heimdall's sword as he made his way up another step. His jaw was set as if his teeth were gritted under his firmly-pressed lips; his eye blazed with determination.

And Loki didn't know _why_.

Maybe Father had gotten it wrong, maybe he had misunderstood it all. Had Father seen him let Laufey in, and thought Loki was trying to _help_ the Jotnar? Or, when Loki killed Laufey, thought he planned to replace that monster as Jotunheim's king? That maybe Loki had turned on the Bifrost only moments before, with a plan to turn the portal off afterwards, so he could join those monsters, throwing away everything Father had taught him?

 _Of course_. _That_ was how it looked, with Loki nearly stripping to a Jotun's crude loincloth, deliberately revealing his Jotun skin as if flaunting it. How could Loki have been so stupid?

“I was trying to help!” he shrieked, renewing his struggles. He had to explain, before Father undid everything, before he took the final step, all because he thought Loki had degenerated to his traitorous Jotun roots. He _must_ know that Loki would never – could never – betray him. “Father, this will win the war!”

Father began hauling Loki to the top of the dais, not once looking around, his expression not once flickering. A heavy, sick dread settled in Loki's stomach, causing his earlier nausea to flare. “ _Asgard will win_ ,” he yelled, not bothering to hide the desperation in his voice as his body slid upward. “No Æsir will have to die. You won't have worry about those monsters anymore, if they'll attack or – or if they try to invade another realm.”

At last, Father hesitated. Standing at the top of the dais and staring at the sword, Father paused, his lips parting, hands tightening around Loki chest, a frown creasing his brow. And _listening_.

Hoping, wishing that Father would finally heed Loki after all, Loki smiled up at him, though Father still wasn't looking. In a rush, he gasped out, “They'll all be dead, see? They'll all be gone from the realms.”

( _No, that wasn't quite right._ )

Feverishly, clutching at Father's hands, he said, “ _We_ all will be.”

With those words, Father's head snapped around to _look_ at him. Loki expected a dawning of comprehension, or even the warm glow of pride when he realized that Loki had discovered such an easy, simple solution.

But Father's eye was wide, his mouth gaping. If Loki didn't know any better, he would say Father was shocked.

“Loki....” Father said. He stared at Loki as if he had never seen him before – and maybe he hadn't, not with this much Jotun skin bared, not for so long. It must have been a grotesque sight, a Jotun runt staring up at the him with its blood-red eyes, teeth bared in what most Æsir would call a snarl rather than a smile. Maybe that was why Father's brow furrowed, mouth twisting, eye filling with something unreadable.

Loki's smile faded, nervousness twisting in his stomach. Father opened his mouth as if to speak, before closing it and shaking his head.

“Loki,” Father finally said, voice low, unyielding. “ _Don't run_.”

Loki stared blankly.

( _How he could run, with Father refusing to_ –)

Father let go.

Stunned, Loki did nothing as he tumbled back down the steps, catching glimpses of Father reaching out to the sword with both hands, wrapping them around the handle. Just as Loki crashed to the floor, he saw Father heave the sword upward, heard the whine of the Bifrost as the magics flowing through it began to dissipate.

Closing off the portal to Jotunheim.

“ _NO_ ,” Loki screamed. It was all wrong, everything had gone all _wrong_. He scrambled to stand up, pushing himself towards the light. But his right foot refused his weight, and he toppled, falling hard against the floor.

( _No, no, no, no, he had to do this, he_ _ **had**_ _to. This was the only way, the best way._ )

Ignoring the pain, he tried to clamber up again, making it to his knees as he shot forward. There was still time, he could still make it before the light disappeared. The portal just wouldn't deposit him on Jotunheim before it killed him, that was all.

It would simply tear him apart, spreading his atoms about Yggdrasil.

Not the original plan, but it would work.

Except he couldn't run, couldn't even _stand_ , and he could see the rainbow-white light fading around the edges. He was more crawling forward than running and there was a clatter of metal against metal and the ring of a blade dropped to the ground–

A heavy weight landed on top of him, pinning him to the floor as the Bifrost began to waver and fade, vanishing. Along with everything Loki had planned.

Loki screamed, thrashing, clawing at the floor, but the weight held him firm, flat against the ground. A horrible wailing sound echoed in his ears, but that didn't matter, none of that mattered because the light was dying out, leaving him.

( _No, no, none this was right, they all had to die._ )

( _ **We**_ _all had to die._ )

Air refused to enter Loki's lungs. A cold sickness spread through his stomach into his trembling limbs, and Loki could do nothing but watch as the Bifrost's portal grew dark. The golden mechanism returned to its place, and the Bifrost chamber fell silent.

Save for the sound of hitching, whimpering sobs.

( _It hadn't worked. None of it had worked.)_

 _(Why couldn't he do it? After all his planning, why wasn't he allowed to do as they all wanted? As_ _ **he**_ _wanted?_ )

Loki didn't known he had stopped struggling until the weight disappeared and he was turned onto his back. Father's face came into view, that same unreadable expression in his eye, creasing his brow, settling his mouth into a thin line. An arm lifted Loki's back off the floor, and Father half-carried Loki back to the steps.

Loki did not fight. He would not, if that was what Father wanted. It wasn't as if Loki had anywhere to go.

But he could not stop the ragged, broken sounds coming from his mouth, even though Father must be tired of them, even though Father had taught him better than to weep like a child.

Father stopped. Clothes rustled behind Loki and he felt Father sit on the steps. Strong arms encircled his chest, and abruptly he was hauled upwards, until his head came to rest against a bronze and gold chest-plate.

“Loki, shhhh.” Father's voice, above him. Soft, not raised to a shout or a command, yet loud enough to be heard over Loki's sobs. “Loki, calm down.”

“I don't understand.” Loki drew his knees upwards, curling in on himself, as if that would crush the emptiness slowly replacing his insides, the void opening in his chest. “I don't understand, _I don't understand_.”

This had all been for Father, for Asgard. To _save_ them.

“It was for you,” he explained, pleading. “I – I – I thought you would–”

“No, Loki.” Father interrupted in that same, soft, soothing voice. A hand gently cradled the back of Loki's head. “I don't want this,” Father said. “Loki, I don't want _any_ of this.”

For a moment, Loki felt as if the air had been torn from his throat. His heart stuttered to a stop as the void swallowed it whole.

He had gotten everything wrong. Utterly and completely _wrong_ , and Father wasn't happy, wasn't pleased, wouldn't look at Loki with the same pride that lit up his face when he looked upon Thor.

Because underneath the soft words, the gentle touches, there was what there had always been whenever Father set his eye on Loki.

Disappointment.

Loki buried his face against Father's chest and cried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odin loves Loki, but he doesn't understand how things could have gone this far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that this story will be a thing, rather than a two-chapter one-shot; it will be terribly self-indulgent with no clear plot and will just be things that happen in a chronological order, but it will be a thing nonetheless. I can't promise regular updates on this thing, though. Updates will be sporadic and with very long waiting times, as it takes me a long time to write a chapter and edit it, and I've got another wip going that I have to concentrate on.
> 
> I am also desperately pretending that Thor-2-Odin never existed, because I have very different headcanons on how Thor-2-Odin sees Loki, and his feelings when he picked Loki up as a kid; my Thor1/Thor2-combined Odin has only a somewhat different way of seeing Loki, but he still wasn't good enough for the story I wanted to tell. (Damn you Thor 2 for ruining everything.)

Odin knew, as he sat on the Bifrost's steps cradling Loki's head against his chest, listening to Loki's desperate, hurting sobs, that he was lucky. Incredibly, unbelievably, lucky that nothing had slowed him down a few moments more, that Loki had not once hastened his stride towards the light. That Odin had saved his son from taking that last step.

Lucky enough that Frigga had helped draw him from the Odinsleep once she realized he was waking, lending him her strength. She had not known where Loki had gone after he killed Laufey, but she had known something was wrong with him, beyond simple worry for his parents' lives. Whereas Odin, with his Sleep giving him Far-Sight similar to Heimdall's, saw exactly where Loki had headed. And could guess what he was about to do.

He had left Frigga the moment he had woken, not stopping to explain. Hopefully she had gone to calm down the people, to reassure them that there was no Jotun invasion and their king was still alive and well.

_Well_. Physically Odin was, perhaps, apart from the lingering weakness of the Odinsleep. But his mind was alight with a trembling, blazing cold fear.

There were few times in Odin's life that he could recall being more afraid.

And one of the few times that he had been grateful for Loki's penchant for melodramatics. The boy had still been folding his clothes as Slepnir thundered down the bridge, Odin bent low over the horse's neck, spurring the steed faster, further.

The swiftest horse in the Nine Realms, a horse fit for a king. All worthless if Odin could not reach the boy in time.

And yet, despite his fear, despite the chance the Norns had given him by blessing Loki with his fastidiousness, Odin had nearly wasted his luck twice over, had hesitated when he should have gone.

His pause as he entered the Bifrost chamber, he knew, was understandable: the second it took to decide whether to go to Loki first, or to go for the sword and remove the danger altogether; the second it took to find Loki in the chamber, to judge his son's distance from the portal, and decide. It had not been a hard decision. As soon as Odin's eye had set upon Loki, Odin knew there was only one choice he could make.

That hesitation was justifiable. It was practical, even, a wise assessment of options before choosing the best course.

But his first hesitation – when he had dismounted Slepnir and caught sight of Gungrir laid so carefully on the bridge, when he had faltered on his path and considered seizing the spear before confronting Loki – that was unforgivable. And Odin knew it. The spear or his son, and if Odin had chosen the spear, had chosen to stop and stoop to lift it from its perch...then Loki might have taken one step too far.

But Odin had not stopped, not for long. He had run.

Loki, at least, had not seemed to hear Odin coming. If he had, Odin thought it more likely that Loki would have hurried forwards rather than slow and see who had come after him. Instead, Loki did not look around, only continued at same, steady pace as he drew closer. Almost ambling to his death as Odin pushed his body faster, horror rising in his throat.

If it were Thor, Odin knew, Thor would have dived right in after opening the Bifrost. No time wasted on sentiment, on folding his clothes, on laying out Odin's spear with such care, on the inevitable stroll towards the light. Odin wouldn't have had a chance to save him.

(Except it would _never_ have been Thor. Thor wouldn't do something like  this _._ )

( _Not this. Never this_.)

Just as Thor, if Odin had wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back from the edge, had told him to _stop_ , he would never had fought so ceaseless, so tirelessly. He would not have collapsed Odin's burgeoning relief into a different sort of fear.

Not to say Thor _wouldn't_ fight at first, bellowing his arguments for anyone all to hear – “ _Father, let's finish them together_ ” and “ _March into Jotunheim as you once did,_ ” still ran through Odin's mind as clearly as “ _And you're an old man and a_ _ **fool**_ ”. But each time, Thor had stopped soon enough. He had recognize when Odin put his foot down and the dispute was at an end – for the time being, at least.

There was no question that Thor could be unreasonable when he put his mind to it.

Yet he had never, at any point, given Odin the impression that he was beyond reason. And as Loki had screamed and struggled, wailing to be _let go_ even after his foot was caught by the Bifrost's power, Odin knew he could not say the same of his other son. Loki may have been safe in his arms, but he was not _saved_. So Odin had done what needed to be done, to keep Loki from as little harm as possible. Deciding to forgo reasoning, he had switched to more forceful tactics.

Yanking Loki from the Bifrost was not his finest moment, but in absence of waiting for someone to come along and pull out Heimdall's sword themselves, or letting Loki go and attempting to stop the Bifrost before Loki was torn apart – a nigh impossibility – there was little else Odin could do. He only hoped Loki's leg had not been too damaged by the ordeal, though he had not the time to stop and check. The longer the Bifrost remained open, the harder it would be to turn it off, and Odin couldn't allow any more damage to Jotunheim to occur. He couldn't allow Loki another chance to throw himself into the light.

Odin had tightened his grip on Loki, fixed his eye on the sword, and dragged his son away from the portal. As he did, he knew he had another problem, one he had not anticipated, one that would never had occurred to him if not for Loki's struggling; the problem of taking out the sword with Loki in his arms.

He had turned the options over in his mind, ignoring Loki's baffling periods of silence and shrieking, fighting and faltering, to consider once the danger was gone. Odin could attempt to remove the sword one-handed, but he did not believe one arm would be sufficient to hold Loki back. A spell might work, perhaps one that could pin Loki to the ground; but Odin was still weak from waking from the Sleep, and Loki, while maybe not in possession of all his faculties, was no less powerful for it. Dropping Loki altogether was a possibility, but that depended on whether or not Loki could make it back to the portal before Odin stopped him again.

Three options, none of them good enough. None that would keep Loki safe from himself.

A solution had still not presented itself by the time he reached the top of the dais. So he had hesitated. Staring at the sword, he had paused, clenching Loki to his chest. And that was when Loki's words, his cry of “ _I was trying to help_ ” on onwards, finally registered in Odin's mind. They broke through his thoughts, each explanation more baffling than the last, just as he heard Loki gasp out, “They'll all be dead, see? They'll all be gone from the realms.”

There was a strange, almost boyish quality to Loki's words, making him sound like a child several hundred years his junior. Before Odin could figure out how to reply to that sort of madness, Loki's hand had landed on Odin's, clutching at it like it was a lifeline. Voice terribly clear despite the roar of the Bifrost, Loki had said, “ _We_ all will be.”

Odin had looked around then. He was too shocked not to. He was too _frightened_ not to.

And when he had seen Loki's almost proud smile, the pleased, painfully hopeful look in his Jotun-red eyes, Odin's heart had been crushed.

This was more than Loki being beyond reason. His boy, his bright, clever boy seem to want, with all his heart, to die. And he wanted Odin to _approve_ of it. No, _no_ he thought Odin already _did_ approve of it.

That Odin wanted Loki's death, just as much as Loki himself.

The realization tore at Odin's chest, burrowed its way into his soul, and nearly brought Odin to his knees as he stared at his son and his slowly dimming smile, the white teeth bright against blue lips.

Odin didn't know what to say. There was nothing he _could_ say.

( _Not that, Loki. Never that._ )

In the end, with the Bifrost still blazing away behind him, Odin had simply let go. And hoped Loki would listen.

Loki hadn't, of course. But Odin had caught him in time. Odin had caught him and taken him into his arms, and when Loki still pleaded, Odin had tried to reassure him of the truth the best he could.

“I don't want this,” he said, wishing that if there was ever one time Loki did not twist his words, it would be now. “Loki, I don't want _any_ of this.”

( _No, I don't want you dead, you foolish boy. I could never want you dead_.)

Loki had only buried his face against Odin's chest and cried.

So Odin held his boy close, stroking his head as Odin tucked him against his chest.

It was as much for his benefit as Loki's.

One moment, one step, one _mis_ step, and Odin's arms would be empty. His boy wouldn't be clasped in his embrace, dampening Odin's armour and tunic with his tears. There wouldn't even be a body to give to Valhalla, adorned in Loki's favourite clothes, his hair smoothed back the way he liked it, surrounded by all his books and trinkets and weapons, sent to join the stars. Loki would be scattered across Yggdrasil, having spent his last moments feeling himself ripped apart, alone and in pain.

Nothing left of his brilliant, mischievous, silvertongued son.

Something wet dripped down his cheek, and Odin realized he was crying. He did not brush the tears away, though. He could not bear let go of his son now, and to rub them away seemed false. As if refusing to show how much he cared.

Odin clenched his fingers tighter around Loki's shoulder, ignoring the coolness of the skin, the rougher ridges under his palm that seemed entirely unfamiliar, almost foreign to his touch. And yet he had felt them before, the first time he had held Loki in his arms; the crying Jotun babe, who had fallen silent as Odin picked him up. His red eyes – even as they turned to green – had looked up at Odin with such innocent curiosity, with such delight. A toothless smile had bloomed across his face as Odin held him and his little hands had tugged at Odin's fingers, had reached up to pull at Odin's beard.

Odin had thought he had knew everything about Jotnar until that day, from Asgard's histories, from his parents, from Laufey, and from the war itself. Loki had changed that, starting the day he had smiled up at Odin in that icy temple and sowed doubt in Odin's mind. Loki had taught Odin that despite all of his years, despite all his wisdom, his knowledge was not absolute.

As Loki still seemed intent teaching him. For Odin thought he knew Loki. He thought he knew both his sons. And yet question after desperate question tumbled through his mind as Odin's relief began to fade.

_Why? Why, Loki, why?_

Why would Loki  _do_ this?  _Any_ of this? Letting the Jotnar in twice, lying to Thor, and now  _this_ –

How could Loki fathom that killing the Jotnar was a _good_ thing? That killing _himself_ would be?

And _why_ – by all the Realms, by the Norns three, by Yggdrasil's roots and branches – why did Loki think it would _please_ Odin? Why would Loki do all this for _him_? Did Loki truly believe Odin _wanted_ him and the Jotnar dead, or was it simply a product of the boy's madness?

But should this not show Loki otherwise? Saving Loki, saving Jotunheim, holding him close...should that not _prove_ that Odin didn't wish him dead? Shouldn't Loki be happy or - or comforted to discover that Odin wanted him alive and safe?

Yet Loki still cried. And Odin could not fool himself into believing they were tears of relief.

What had driven Loki to throw his life away? What, in his madness, made Loki want to die?

Unless – the idea crept into Odin's head with an icy, oily slick fear – unless it wasn't simply born of madness.

Unless Loki sincerely wanted to die, whether his reason had abandoned him or not. And insanity had only spurred him into action.

Was that it? Was that why his son had planned all this? But for how long? How long had Loki felt this...this _need_?

Odin hoped he was wrong. He hoped it had only sprung in past few days, beginning with their disastrous conversation in the Vault, when Loki learnt of his heritage. He clutched this idea as close to his heart as Loki to his chest, because then all Odin had to do was try that conversation again. To clarify his words, speak more firmly, to leave no room to doubt that no matter what, Loki was his son. Then this madness would clear, and Loki would see sense again.

Except one conversation did not seem sufficient to explain it all. For the desperation in Loki's struggles, the depths of insanity he must have sunk to to truly believe such nonsense...was three days enough to shatter Loki's reason? How far back did this go? Had there been any warning signs, _anything_ that would signal this catastrophe? How long had Loki been waiting for the perfect moment?

As questions ran through Odin's mind, as his thoughts churned to discover an answer to any of them, at first he was not aware that something had changed. Then he heard the small stutter in Loki's breathing, and realized that Loki's sobs had grown quiet. The only sound in the chamber was the rush of the waves beneath them and the slow, wet huffs of breath that chilled Odin's damp tunic.

Shifting his grip, Odin looked down at his son's face. Loki's red eyes were open, but instead of looking at Odin he stared forward, gaze fixed on distant point much further away than Odin's chestplate. He didn't seem to react as Odin moved him.

_In shock_ , Odin guessed. Or hoped. _In shock, or simply too weary to continue_.

“Loki,” he said, and his voice did not sound very kingly. It sounded drained, rough. “It's time we went back.”

It was. The people would be asking questions, and even Frigga would not be able to handle them all, especially when she only had half of the answers.

But Loki did not respond. He continued to stare at a far-off point, his body somehow both taut and limp.

Odin was about to help him to upright, when he remembered Loki's leg; how Loki hadn't been able to stand as he made one last frantic rush to the portal.

Moving Loki carefully, so one arm still supported his back, Odin bent over Loki's knees, towards his feet. It was the right one, Odin recalled. That had been the one caught by Bifrost.

He ignored the panic threatening to break over him as he stared at the blue feet splayed across the floor. At first glance, nothing seemed wrong, both feet cerulean blue with matching markings curling up the skin and the ankle, until they disappeared under the trousers' legs. Except the right was a shade darker than the left.

Not because it was in shadows. But because the of black floor of the Bifrost, which could partially be seen through Loki's foot and ankle, as if through a heavily fogged glass.

Odin drew in a sharp breath, and knew his fears had been right when he had pulled Loki from the Bifrost. Loki's foot was no longer entirely _there_ anymore; the Bifrost had torn too much away from it, taking atoms of skin and bone and flesh, not all of which had returned when Odin hauled Loki from the portal. The Healers would do what they could, Odin knew. But this was no simple battle wound, to be fixed with a healing stone. This wasn't about skin to be knit back together or bones to splinted. This was different.

And it wouldn't take long for Loki to figure that out.

A sharp pang drove through Odin, and his arms tightened around Loki involuntarily. Loki would hate this, Odin knew, once he emerged from his shock, once he lost that lost stare that even now was settle somewhere beyond Odin's shoulder, fixated on nothing.

The quicker Odin got Loki to the palace, the better, he decided.

Odin drew himself straighter, careful not to jostle Loki, and whistled two high, clear notes. He thought he saw Loki's eyelids twitch at the suddenness of the noise, but otherwise Loki did not seem to hear. It was not Loki he was trying to signal, though.

A few moments later, the sound of eight hooves clacking against the floor echoed around the chamber, and Slepnir appeared around the curve of the dais before stopping in front of Odin. The horse let out a worried nicker, nudging at Loki's shoulder; the Jotun colouring and smell did not seem to dissuade him, recognizing Loki despite the change. Although Slepnir had always been a bright creature.

While the stories the mortals told of the horse's conception were untrue, Loki had aided in the birthing and raising of the horse after helping create it through magic, lending the horse its extra legs and speed, as well as, it seems, its intelligence.

At Odin's signal, Slepnir stopped nudging Loki, distressed about the lack of response, and knelt, four of his eight legs dipping to the ground. Odin put one arm under Loki's knees, the other across his back, and heaved upwards. Loki might not be as small or light as he once was ( _and where had those days gone, when Odin could bundle Loki in his arms, carry him about with ease?_ ), but Odin could still lift him high enough for this. Hoping Loki would not simply slide off, he hooked one of Loki's leg over the far side of the saddle and carefully lowered Loki onto Slepnir's back.

No sooner had he let go, however, keeping a hand between Loki's shoulders for balance, than Loki started listing to one side. As Odin grabbed for him, there was a brief flicker of surprise in Loki's eyes and his hands shot out, seizing the pommel. He stopped falling, but the surprise disappeared from his expression, leaving his face blank once more. Yet it might as well have been a speech, for the elation Odin felt as Loki kept himself upright. Because Loki's mind had not fled so far that Odin could not draw it back.

( _Loki's mind was not gone._ )

Odin signalled Slepnir to stand, holding Loki stable as the horse rose, then took hold of Slepnir's reins and lead the two of them across the obsidian floor, towards the golden-rainbow shining from the other end. As they exited the dome, emerging into the starlight, a breeze blowing off the ocean for below, Odin tightened his grip on Loki's knee. Not just to keep Loki steady, but because he couldn't trust Loki not to spot a new chance at escape, closer and easier than leaping into the Bifrost's portal. If he woke from his stupor, it would be all too for him to slip off Slepnir's back, and dive from the bridge into the waters below.

He would fall over Asgard's edge before Odin could dive after him.

But apart from rocking with the motion of the horse, Loki did not move as Slepnir minced over the Casket, over Loki's clothes and amour, his eight hooves stepping with precision. Nor did Loki react as Odin stopped once they reached the head of the chain, with the spear, cape, and helm laid out with such painstaking care. That did not mean Odin was not cautious; there could be a chance – a very, very slight chance – that Loki was feigning his shock, and was planning to jump as soon as Odin was distracted. Hand still on Loki's knee, Odin stooped, and picked the cape from the ground. Shaking it out, he risked removing his hand just long enough to grasp at corners, then threw it over Loki's shoulders. The green fabric billowed, before settling to drape across its owner. Odin thought he saw Loki's shoulders hunch at the contact. Otherwise, Loki did not stir.

Heart heavy, Odin returned his hand to Loki's leg and crouched once more reached towards Gungnir.

Yet when his hand clasped about the golden haft, guilt shot through him, nearly releasing his hold. He remembered his hesitation, the pause he had taken only minutes before ( _only minutes – it felt like an age_ ). The spear or his boy, and to think Odin had nearly traded this hunk of metal for his child...

Disgust curling within him, he almost dropped Gungnir back to the bridge. But when he returned to the palace, the people would look to their king, and they would worry and fret if the king lost his spear. And besides, Odin needed it for another job.

Odin rose and gestured forward with Gungnir; Slenpir took the cue, stepping over Loki's empty helmet and armour, until they left the rest of Loki's neatly arranged garments behind. Odin would have to send some servants to collect it all later.

Except then there would be talk, about the second prince's clothes strew across the Rainbow Bridge, about the Casket of Ancient Winters, one of the most powerful and highly guarded artifacts in the realm, sitting unprotected just next to Loki's boots; even Odin swearing them to secrecy might not silent their tongues.

No, Odin would have to come back for them himself, or send Frigga, if he hoped to avoid as many rumours as possible. Not that wouldn't talk anyway, if Loki did not recover from his shock soon.

(What could Odin say? What could he _do_ , with Loki like this?)

(How was he to explain his mad son?)

Considering and discarding idea after idea Odin continued down the bridge until he stopped Slepnir again, not far from the Bifrost chamber, just in front of a prone, partially ice-covered body.

Odin raised his spear, and slammed it down against the bridge, channelling the Odinforce into the blow. The ice cracked then shattered, freeing Heimdall from the prison Loki had decided to form around him.

The Gatekeeper began moving sluggishly, his limbs stretching and hands curling. Odin waited, and at last, Heimdall drew himself into a sitting position, though his body still swayed. Once his dazed golden eyes had settled on Odin, Odin asked, “Can you walk, Lord Heimdall?” He knew the answer already, but he figured he might as well do the Gatekeeper the courtesy.

As expected, Heimdall answered, voice weak, “No, my king.” His eyes flicked upwards to Loki, then back to Odin, expression unreadable; as Heimdall did not have to move his eyes to see anything in the realms, Odin knew Heimdall wanted him to know that Loki drew his gaze. Whether it was the Jotun skin, the silence, the freezing Loki had subjected him to, or something else, Odin did not know, and at the moment, did not care. If Heimdall had any caveats about his son, they could be taken up later, when both of them were well. Instead, Odin turned to Loki as well, and saw that if Loki took any heed of the conversation, he did not show it.

Eyes still on Loki, Odin said to the Gatekeeper, “Then rest here. I will send for the Healers.” Then Odin grasped hold of Slepnir's pommel and, holding Gungnir aloft, threw himself into the saddle behind Loki. The saddle was large enough for them both, although Loki's head nearly blocked his view of the bridge. Odin couldn't remember when his son had grown so tall, when he started having to look up at both his boys instead of down.

Wrapping his free arm around Loki's chest and grabbing the reins, he looked back down at Heimdall, waiting for the Gatekeeper's response.

“Yes, my king, I will wait,” Heimdall said, inclining his head. But his eyes remained on Loki. “If I may ask,” he said slowly, voice impassive, “do you plan to march him into Asgard as he is?”

_As he is. As a Jotun._

Heimdall's tone did not have any spite or disdain behind it; he seemed to only wish to know the answer. But it still rankled at Odin, that Heimdall might think he would endanger Loki like that.

“No,” he said shortly, and tugged at Slepnir's reins. The horse moved into a light trot, leaving the Gatekeeper behind.

Odin could have returned Loki to his Ás skin as he held Loki in the Bifrost, but he hadn't wanted to give Loki the wrong idea, that he would refuse to embrace Loki in his Jotun form. Although Odin supposed it did not matter, with Loki's distant, fixed stare; Loki probably wouldn't have noticed the change anyway. And Odin could only imagine the confusion, the cries of anger, if he rode into Asgard with a stunned, unresponsive, Jotun runt swaddled in Loki's cape in front of him. He could imagine their insults shouted, when they decided Loki was a captive, taken by their king in the latest Jotun attack. Even if Loki did not hear, even if Odin found a sufficient explanation to keep them away, Odin did not want to put his son through that.

Letting Slepnir carry them forward, Odin adjusted his hold on Loki to keep him firmly in place, and dug into his memory for the spell, the one had had placed on Loki when he first held the boy in his arms. Loki may have ripped the spell from his core, but his body still remembered. As Odin let the power seep back into Loki's flesh, he felt the skin under his hand begin to warm, smoothing over. What little he could see of Loki's face lost the blue, returning to a pale, nearly white pink.

And then Loki stirred. Not just a faint twitch, but as if was waking from a deep sleep. His legs bumped into Odin's as they shifted, and his back straightened. His head jerked, as if Loki were looking from side to side, and Odin wished he could see Loki's face, too see if Loki blinked his confusion away as awareness entered his eyes.

Luckily, Odin did not have to wait long to know Loki's mind was no longer so lost.

“Father?” Loki's voice emerged from the folds of his cape; it was frail, breaking mid-word, but Odin felt like shouting for joy.

( _Perhaps he would be alright now, perhaps his madness had passed._ )

Instead, Odin only smiled, and asked, “Yes, Loki?” He hoped his voice reflected the warmth growing in his heart.

Loki half-turned, a hand rising from the pommel to clutch at the arm Odin had draped across his chest. Loki's eyes, what Odin could see of them, were wide and gleaming. “I know where I went wrong, Father,” Loki said, voice breathless – not from weakness, Odin realized, but in excitement. “I'm sorry, I should have thought of it before – but we can still go to war, if you want. Asgard can kill the monsters themselves, like you did, and - and like Thor did. Not the cowardly way, like I was doing, from far away.”

Something inside Odin froze, sharp tendrils of ice crawled through his veins. But Loki didn't notice; he only smiled, a wide, pleased smile and said, “And when they're all gone, you won't need me any more, so I can die too. I can even die in battle, instead of taking my own life, if that's what you want - I can make _sure_ of it. It won't be too hard, and they'll all believe it anyway.”

The relief in Loki's voice, the longing, was like a knife to Odin's gut, ragged and searing.

And Loki decided to twist it.

Smile growing, Loki clenched his hand tighter around Odin's arm. “And that way you won't have to admit to the truth,” he explained, eyes over-bright, reassurance in his voice. “You won't have to tell anybody what I am. We can still keep me a secret. No one has to know you tried to raise me.”

_Tried to raise a Jotun_ , Loki meant. _Tried to raise Laufey's son_.

Odin could only stare.

He wanted to shake Loki. He wanted to scream at him.

_Why, Loki?_ _**Why** _ _?_

_Why do you think this would be good for Asgard? Why do you **want** this?_

_Why do you think_ _**I** _ _would want it?_

Most of all, Odin wanted to go back three days ago, to the day of Thor's interrupted coronation. He wished he had been swifter, that he guard that warned him faster, that he not arrived solely in time to save his sons and their friends from the Jotnar, but before that – that he had stopped them from going to Jotunheim at all. Stopped the war, stop Thor's banishment. Stopped Loki from learning whatever it was on Jotunheim that lead him to the Casket that day.

“Father?” Loki's smile began to fade, just as it had when Odin held him on top of the dais. Those bright, self-assured eyes grew worried.

Loki needed to hear something, anything, but Odin knew if he opened his mouth now, he would only he shout at Loki, rage at him. Or perhaps his voice would break and he would sob as hopelessly as Loki had in the Bifrost.

_Why do you think I want the Jotnar dead? Why do you think I want_ _**you** _ _dead?_

_Do you truly believe that of me?_

_**How** could you believe that of me?_

_How could you believe it yourself?_

All this time, when Loki had been silent, unmoving...had he only been trying to figure out why Odin saved him?

And he came up with _this_?

What was _wrong_ with him?

( _Where had_ _ **Odin**_ _gone wrong with him?_ )

“ _Father?_ ” Loki's voice was desperate, his eyes beginning to fill with tears again. He grabbed at Odin's arm with both his hands now, and Odin could feel them trembling. Whatever emotion showed on Odin's face, it was frightening Loki almost as much as Loki's words were frightening him.

Odin should ask Loki the questions burning in his mind, so he could _understand_.

( _Why, why, why, why?_ )

But even if he did ask...Loki's answer would be steeped in madness. Nonsensical. The product of a fractured mind. Odin could no more reason with him now than he could in the Bifrost chamber.

It would be best to wait, Odin decided. Until the boy regained his senses ( _if he did_ ), and then Odin would have a straight answer. He would find out how Loki had arrived these ideas, and how to be rid of them.

Relief freeing his limbs, Odin drew the arm holding Gungnir closer until it cradled Loki from the other side. Loki's breathing grew erratic, and Odin felt the hitching sobs building in Loki's chest again as his son's body shook.

“Let's go home, Loki,” Odin said, and even to him the words sounded weary.

Loki said nothing, his face crumpling; he fell almost limply against Odin's chest, his face turned so he was looking out over the water, looking out over the water. Except for the stutter of his breath, his body was eerily still.

His mind lost again.

Odin's eye prickled with tears, and he let them fall. His blurred vision focused on Asgard's golden palace, which grow steadily larger with every hoof-beat, Odin dug his heels into Slepnir's sides, spurring his steed forward. His arms held Loki in a cage. Keeping him from jumping. Keeping him close.

Loki was mad, Odin knew. But Loki was alive.

He may not be whole, but he was alive.

Luck had saved him. Luck, and Odin, and Frigga.

And Odin would not waste this chance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three months. I am so sorry. When I said it would take a long time between updates, I didn't actually mean this long. But I didn't have a plan for the order of events after the second chapter. I just had scenes in my mind that were supposed to happen, and when I tried to write out those scenes I realized I had no idea what I was doing and ended up writing a hell of a lot to make sense of them. And then around page 20 of chapter 3 I realized I had nearly 20 twenty pages of chapter 3. And what I had needed to be severely edited. So here's half of what was going to be chapter 3. However, the good news is, the rough draft of chapter 4 is half-way done, so hopefully it won't take another 3 months to get it out!
> 
> Also AO3 is giving me a lot of trouble when I try to update the tags, and mixes them around so they don't make sense :( If anyone has any advice for that, that would be great.
> 
> Warnings for ableism in this chapter, and in probably a lot of chapters after this – I don't think Asgard has a very high view of invalids or those with disabilities unless they compensate in some ways (ie, Odin's loss of an eye is fine because he's king and doesn't need it, and Tyr's loss of a hand is fine because he's still a great warrior). So their views of disabilities, including Loki's views, won't exactly be very PC.

“Can he be brought out of it?”

Only Odin's thousands of years of practice kept desperation from tinging his question, just as practice kept the same expression from his face. Instead, the words came out calm, controlled. Nothing else – from the fear that blazed bright inside him, to the frantic energy that made his hands tremble unless he clenched them tight – crossed his features.

Healer Eir shifted uncomfortably, pursing her lips, and glanced to the side where Loki lay on a Healer's bed. Two Healers, both as trusted as Eir, attended to him.

Loki remained unmoving, his blank eyes staring up at the vaunted gold ceiling above. He had been this way since his outburst on the bridge. So far, none of the Healers had asked _why_ Loki was like that. They hadn't questioned why the boy that had been their king only hours before was now lying half-naked and unresponsive in their rooms. They hadn't questioned how he had sustained an injury that could only come from the something like the Bifrost. They only did as Odin ordered.

Eir turned back to Odin, clasping her hands in front of her. “It would be inadvisable to do it by force,” she said carefully, obviously not wishing to outright deny her king. “And it may only result in him falling back in this state once any spell we use loses its effect.”

It was exactly what Odin expected, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He _needed_ Loki to come back to himself.

He needed to _understand_.

Hand clenching around Gungnir, he began to say, “What if–”

“ _Odin_.”

Frigga's voice cut through his, snapping out across the room from Loki's bedside. She had taken a seat there, close to Loki but out of the Healers' way. She took her gaze from Loki to look up at him, her face pale and her eyes lit with the same fear that blazed in Odin. “ _Listen_ to her,” she said. “ _Don't_ make this worse.”

Odin wanted snarl, _How could it be worse?_ _How could Loki_ _ **possibly**_ _be worse?_

_You didn't see him. You didn't see how he_ _ **looked**_ _at me when he told me he planned to die_.

_You didn't see him walking to his death_.

But he said nothing. Because Frigga didn't know what had happened. She didn't know what their son had tried to do. She didn't know how lucky they were, how close they had come to having nothing but an empty helm and a trail of armour strewn over the Bifrost's bridge. She had only rushed in minutes ago, skirts flying and face pinched with worry.

And Odin could not tell her here, not with the Healers around, not with the guards at the door who may be listening with curious ears.

Besides, Odin had already seen Loki wake from his stupor once, only to be met with more of his madness. Perhaps the Healers could only repeat it, and bring Loki to surface long enough for him to rave and rant on another tangent – what would it be this time? Would he smile as he spun up another scheme for his and Jotunheim's demise? Would he turn to Frigga with his hopeful, pleading eyes and ask her _just_ how she wanted him to die?

Would he grasp at Odin's hands and beg Odin to kill him himself?

Bile choked the back of Odin's throat. It was all he could do to keep from gagging, and he abruptly turned from the Healer; there were some expressions that should not be seen on the king.

Feeling centuries older, holding Gungnir for strength, Odin made his way to the window far at the right of Loki's bed. The Bifrost was visible from this side of the palace, gleaming in the evening light.

It looked empty from the palace. Peaceful.

Nothing like before.

Perhaps Loki _could_ be worse, Odin decided.

And Odin had no wish to see it.

“Odin?”

Frigga sounded concerned, probably troubled by Odin's lack of response.

Staring across Asgard's peaks and spires, out to its seas and its stars, Odin asked, “And what of Loki's injury?”

There was a pause. “We are doing what we can,” Eir answered diplomatically. “But the injury is complicated, and will require concentration to assess.”

Which meant she was asking her King and Queen to leave, without going so far as to order them out.

Frigga must have heard Eir's unspoken request as well, for there was a rustling of skirts and the sound of her soft, light footsteps as she approached Odin. “Inform us if there is any change,” Frigga commanded the Healers.

“Yes, your Majesties,” Eir answered, and Odin heard her move closer to Loki's side.

Frigga set a hand on Odin's shoulder, waiting for him to turn, to take his gaze from the Bifrost.

From this distance, the golden half-globe of a chamber looked too small to hold all that had happened, the bridge too thin to hold its weight up above the water. All of Asgard seemed to small to hold it.

And Odin could not hold it on his own.

He turned from the window. After a last glance at his unmoving, mad son, he allowed Frigga to lead him out of Healers' wing. Only when they arrived at their private rooms, sealed with the highest magic against any eavesdroppers, did Odin begin to explain.

Repeating it felt as if he was wrenching out an arrowhead that had been buried in his chest, as if Laufey was tearing out his eye all over again.

He had to sit down as he spoke, sure that his legs would give out if he remained standing. His head seemed to bow on its own, until his eye was staring at the polished floor of their chambers. Whether he kept his eye open or not, he still only saw Loki and his gleaming eyes, both red and green, and his wide, bright smile. He could hear the hitches in Frigga's breath, then the sound of springs as she took a seat of her own, followed by the muffled sound of her tears.

After he finished, her tears were the only sound in the room.

She was the first to speak.

“I should have seen it,” she said. Her voice was thick. Angry.

Odin looked up to see her seated across from him, her head bent and shoulders hunching inward. He stood, using the armrest to help push himself upward. Walking across the room to her, he said, “Frigga–”

“ _I was there_ ,” she shouted as she leapt to her feet, hands clenched into shaking fists at her side. “I was _there_ and I should have _seen it_ , I _should have_ –If I had not been–”

Her voice cracked and she fell silent, staring at him. But she did not have to finish. He knew what she meant to say.

If she had not been looking after Odin, if she had not needed to protect him, to lend him the strength of her _seið_ r if his body failed, and to make the announcement to the realm if Odin did not make it through his Sleep...she might have seen it.

( _Why should_ _**she** _ _have seen it, rather than him?_ a bitter voice whispered in his mind.)

(But he already knew why. If anyone should have seen it, it would have been Frigga. Not him.)

Frigga closed her eyes, but that could not stop new tears from dripping down her cheeks. “My boy,” she whispered. She hugged her arms around herself and a sob broke out of her throat. “Oh, _my boy_.”

Odin closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. For a moment she remained still, then returned the embrace. “How could you have seen it?” he murmured in her ear. “He didn't want you to see. He didn't want _anyone_ to see. Even from the Sleep, I didn't know until...” _Until it was nearly too late._ “Until the end.”

Even though Odin had seen the way Loki had trembled and shook or stalked about his rooms in the few private moments Odin had caught, had seen the way Loki raced down to the Bifrost with something almost like relief on his face, he still hadn't understood. Even with the Sight, even with all the Nine visible to him if he chose to look, he didn't understand until moments before he woke. Until he saw Loki lay Gungnir down so carefully, then reach for his helm.

( _How could they both have missed it? How could_ _ **everyone**_ _have missed it?_ )

( _How could Loki have hid it all so well?_ )

Frigga shuddered, drawing in breath with a painful, gasping sound, and Odin wondered if she was thinking of what would have happened, had he been too late.

Odin barely held back a shudder himself as pure terror, terror what could have so easily befallen, rushed through him.

“We will help him,” he said, trying to shutter away the fear. “He's still here, and we will help him.”

Frigga said nothing, only tightening her hold on him.

Odin found himself grateful for it.

 

* * *

 

When they heard the urgent knock at the door, Odin and Frigga waited until they had composed themselves before they allowed the servant to enter.

The servant told them Healer Eir was ready to speak with them.

Odin had the Healer meet the two of them in one of his reception quarters. His first question, as soon as Eir had shut the door and the three of them had taken a seat at his desk, was if Loki had woken.

“No, your majesties.” Eir looked apologetic, as if it was her fault Loki had decided not to come out of his stupor. “But we have finished examining the damage to his leg, if you would wish to discuss it?”

Odin gave her leave to speak, although he already guessed what she would say.

He was right.

She told them them that was irreparable.

“He is lucky worse damage has not occurred.” Eir was clearly distressed; no one wished to be the bearer of bad news to the king. “The portal left enough behind so we could keep it stable, though his limb may be swollen for the next day or so.”

Some of the weakened blood vessels couldn't handle the regular influx of blood and had burst, flooding Loki's foot; the Healers had tried to clean up what they could, but the flesh would not mend to what it had been before. Whatever was left was what he had.

The damage encompassed his foot, ankle, and almost half of his calf, she said.

Her Healers were taking care of it, she said.

He would be particularly vulnerable to bruising and breaks, she said.

He may need regular treatment or else risk more damage, she said. Or at worst, collapse, she said.

“Unless,” she said, and the word lingered in the air as she hesitated. “Unless you wish to have it cut off.”

“ _No_ ,” Frigga said immediately. Her hands found Odin's under the desk and squeezed, but her eyes remained on the Healer. “Thank-you, Healer Eir, but that is not an option for us now.”

Like Odin, she had must have already known the Healer's assessment.

Unlike Odin, she had already decided on her answer.

Odin turned to his wife. “Frigga...” he sighed, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb, knowing she would understand his meaning.

Sure enough, her head snapped towards him, shock parting her lips and betrayal in her eyes. She wrenched her hands out of Odin grasp and settled them in her lap, then angrily turned back to Healer. “Healer Eir, in your experience, how often do lost limbs result in a state of shock for a warrior?”

( _A further state of shock_ , she should have said.)

“It depends,” the Eir said carefully, looking between the two of them, “on how the injury was sustained, on how prepared the combatant was for the loss, and on how large of limb.”

“It is not much more than his foot,” Odin protested. _A foot and a quarter of his leg_ , another part of his mind whispered. He did his best to ignore it. “And it can be replaced.

_Niðavellir, he knew, would be the best place to contact. The Dwarfs were master builders, able to spin hair out of gold, and it had been their smiths that had crafted Mjolnir. A limb would not be beyond their prowess._

But Frigga's eyes slitted. “And how do you think Loki will take it when he wakes up to find out we've _cut it off_? How will he like it when he finds a _stump_ in place of his foot, and he doesn't even know how he got it? Odin, we don't know what this will _do_ to him.”

“And if we leave it be, how will he take it when he wakes up and finds out we left him like _this_?” Odin snapped. “What will he do when he finds out he is unable to walk, or even _stand_ on his own?”

If Odin could do one thing for his son, it would be this. He would not leave Loki an invalid.

He would not give Loki another reason to throw his life away. To believe Odin _wanted_ that life thrown away.

( _But what if this_ _ **gave**_ _him that reason? What if Frigga was right?_ )

_Don't make it worse_ , Frigga had pleaded earlier. And Odin could either leave his son with a weak, half-formed limb, or remove it and leave his son with a stump.

How was there any way he could make this _better_?

“Your majesties,” Eir interjected before either of them could speak again, her voice raised. “This is a decision that takes some time to think over, and it is not a dire concern. It might be best to consider all options first, and consult with the Prince when he wakes.”

Odin could almost laugh at that. Consult with Loki, when all Loki wished to do was hurl himself off of Asgard's edge? Consult with Loki, when Loki would plead with Odin to go throw him back to Jotunheim and turn on Bifrost until the rest of him went the way of his limb?

Consult with Loki, when all that Loki uttered was madness?

But he nodded, and conceded, “Yes, that may be for the best.” Frigga, at least, nodded along with him.

He dismissed Eir, with the orders to have Loki brought to his rooms.

Then he sent out the announcement to all the councillors, nobles, and messengers that were available on short notice to gather in throne room. He decided it was better to get this over with sooner rather than later.

It still took several hours for them to arrive. They crowded into the hall, muttering amongst themselves. Occasionally they snuck glances at Odin, seated on the Hliðskjálf, and Frigga, standing to his right on the steps, but Odin was sure their face betrayed nothing – they had been doing this much too long to let anything show.

Once Odin decided all that would come had arrived, he banged Gungnir against the ground. The sound was magnified a hundred-fold in the room, and a hush fell as hundreds of eyes looked to him. Closest to the steps were the councillors, ready to hang on his every word and figure out how they might spin it to their advantage. Just behind them, Odin spotted the bright red hair of Lord Volstagg, whose face was drawn and apprehensive, and who was the last of Loki's friends still remaining in the palace.

For a second, Odin felt a deep flash of rage at the man. If Volstagg was truly a friend to his son, then why had he done _nothing_ as Loki's mind caved in on itself? Why had _he_ not helped Loki?

Why had _no one_ helped Loki?

_Because Loki pretended he didn't need it_ , Odin knew. Just as he told Frigga. _Because he hid it, where no one would see_.

No, there was a reason none of Loki's other friends were around, and Loki would not be so careless as to allow Volstagg time to interfere. _Loki had assured he would be alone._

_When his family was no longer there for him, he had decided to be rid of his friends as well._

_(_ __Had they seen any of it before he sent them away? Had they seen whatever madness lurked in Loki's head, and kept it to themselves? Or had they missed it, just as all else had?_ _ _)_

Odin drew his gaze from Volstagg to settle it over the midst of the crowd. They were still silent, waiting for their king to speak. So he spoke.

“Only hours ago, the Jotun King Laufey and several of his warriors snuck into Asgard,” he said. “We do not yet know how he accomplished the feat, if it was by the same pathway as the day of Prince Thor's coronation, or another.”

Ripples ran through the crowd, people turning to their neighbours to whisper in their ear – some had not known the true cause for Thor's interrupted coronation, as Odin had not had time to make the announcement. A few of them might not have even known they were at war.

Odin held up his hand, and the crowd quieted again. “King Laufey and one of his warriors managed to make it to my chambers.” Gasps and cries of horror erupted throughout the room, but Odin ignored them, and none were so bold as to interrupt. “Queen Frigga killed the warrior, and Prince Loki slayed Laufey before any harm could come. During these events, the Bifrost was turned on Jotunheim, and the giants' realm suffered greatly before the Bifrost was stopped.” _Was turned. Was stopped_. Such simple phrases, so easy to place the blame anywhere and nowhere.

Sitting tall and confident, his voice carrying the utmost conviction, he said, “I am still investigating how much of this came to pass, but with Laufey dead, it will not happen again.”

( _With Loki's plans over, it would not happen again_.)

The court couldn't seem to settle on an emotion; there was horror combined with relief, unease mixed with joy, and over it all, a sort of shock. That didn't stop them from muttering and murmuring amongst themselves, though.

But they believed him. He was the Allfather, and his word would not be doubted.

And he saw the instant they began to remember the rumours that had spread in hours since: Loki seated unmoving in front of the Allfather on the King's horse; Loki, carted through the halls by Healers, his eyes unseeing. There were glances that darted between Odin and Frigga, stares that focused the empty steps were Loki would usually stand, and the sound of his name whispered on a hundred lips

It was Volstagg who first stepped forward, just as Odin was about to dismiss the court. Wringing his hands together, Volstagg cleared his throat and asked, “Allfather, I – is there a reason for Prince Loki's absence? He is obviously no longer Regent since your awakening, my King, but...how does he fare? Was he in injured in King Laufey's attack?”

Odin could not help glancing at Frigga. She looked back at him with tired eyes, but gave no indication to what she thought. They'd had little time to discuss what to say about Loki, and Odin was still not sure how to explain his son.

But Volstagg had given him a good starting point.

“King Laufey did not injure him _as such_ ,” he said carefully, knowing the rumours would start the moment they left the hall, rumours that Laufey had given Loki some grievous wound, or had cast a terrible spell over him. Odin saw no reason to dissuade them of the notion. A thousand years ago, in that snowy temple, injury was _least_ Laufey had intended Loki to suffer. “Prince Loki's...affliction is not entirely of the body. Queen Frigga and I believe the stress of the past few days, from Thor's coronation and banishment, the war, the Odinsleep, his kingship, and finally, his struggle with Laufey as Laufey make an attempt on my life, it...”

Odin's voice faltered. He had not meant it to. He swallowed, and without a hint of doubt, or fear, or anything that had split through heart as he held Loki's struggling body on the Bifrost, he said, “It has sent Prince Loki into a state of shock. He has yet to recover, but we are certain it will pass.”

More ripples spread through the crowd, like a Odin had thrown a stone out among them and waited for the splash. Heads turned in gossip, while others nodded in knowing, if sad, acceptance. And they swallowed another lie, just as Odin needed them to.

But Odin had _wanted_ them to fight it. He wanted them to question, to wonder how a mind such as Loki's had fallen so far. He wanted them to understand that this _wasn't_ normal for Loki, that this was something that needed to be fixed. He wanted them to wonder _why_.

If they did, no one came forward. Odin dismissed them from the throne room, back into the palace where they would spread his announcement, warping it with each retelling.

As long as it didn't turn against Loki, Odin found that for once, he did not care.

He waited as they all left, until only the Einherjar remained behind. Then, side-by-side with Frigga, he walked to Loki's rooms. If she took issue with any of the lies he told the realm, she did not voice them. Which likely meant she agreed when them.

They found Loki where the Healers had left him – laid beneath the covers of his bed on his side. His eyes were open, settled on some distant point as if there was a far-off sight that only he could perceive. He didn't so much as blink when the two of the entered, nor when Frigga stroked back his hair back behind his ears, the way he preferred it.

They stayed with him that night. In two of Loki's over-stuffed chairs that the Healers must have moved in, with their high backs to the fireplace, they stayed and waited for Loki to wake.

Odin felt as if they were holding vigil, waiting by the dead as their soul made their journey to Valhalla

( _Or to Hel._ )

( _Hel, for the unworthy dead. For those who died in bed, not in battle. And for those who took their own life._ )

Only the slow rise and fall of Loki's chest told him otherwise.

Odin fell asleep in that chair, his hand in Frigga's. Waiting.

He only had time to make himself presentable for court the next morning because a nervous Healer shook him awake when she came to check on Loki. That night, he made sure to depart before he fell asleep.

It made little difference. There was no change that night

Or the next.

Or the next.

 

* * *

 

Frigga had propped herself up against the pillows on Loki's bed, her legs tucked in next to her and skirts flowing across the covers. One hand lay on top of Loki's, and her other arm atop Loki's shoulders. Loki's head rested against Frigga's shoulder, his left leg drawn to his chest, while the right was splayed out over the bed; the right pant-leg was shortened to end just past mid-calf.

If Odin looked closely enough, he knew he would see that the Loki's bare leg was not quite resting on soft blankets, but on a cushion of air just above it. The Healers said it would prevent further damage that way.

As Loki lay with his eyes half-closed, blinking slowly and lethargically, Frigga talked. She talked of her day so far, of the court, of happenings beyond Asgard – nothing exciting or distressing. Simply talk. And Loki – who usually had that same taut yet limp quality he'd had on the bridge, like a doll made of wire rather than cloth – seemed relaxed, almost boneless. Just as he always did when Frigga, and only Frigga, was with him. As if whatever tension that held him slipped off, and his mind was put at ease.

(But only with Frigga.)

(No one else.)

The visit had been Frigga's routine for the past few days. In her free hour between morning duties, she always went to Loki's rooms.

She spent most of her free hours in Loki's rooms.

But Odin could not afford such a luxury.

With a sigh, Odin withdrew his Sight from Loki's rooms, and blinked as Asgard's throne room swam into view. The room was still empty of all but the Einherjar, and silent but for the rustling of Odin's robes as he shifted on the Hliðskjálf.

So far, his nights were the only time he could see his son in person. The throne's Far Sight was a poor substitute, but he could not simply abandon his duties in the middle of the day, no matter how he might feel. The Hliðskjálf was as close as he could get during the day, without sending one of his ravens to look after Loki.

He supposed he could manage to few minutes during the day, if he arranged his schedule just right, and if there were no emergencies while he clustered himself away in Loki's rooms. But stopping by only to see Loki stare at a wall, sitting so still he might have been carved from stone...

Just the thought of it made Odin weary.

He supposed there was little point too, then, in watching Loki from afar. But at least on his throne, he could shift his eye, and hope that the next time his gaze alighted on the chamber, it would be different. That was always the fleeting hope on his mind each time he looked, each time he went to Loki's rooms – this time he checked, this time he asked whichever Healer he had stationed in Loki's quarters – that Loki would have changed.

This time Odin opened his son's door, a Healer would tell him Loki had been calling for him and Frigga. And when they both rushed into his room, Loki would be sitting up on his bed, looking at them instead of a wall. His normally smooth words would break and stumble over themselves as he explained _why_ he had fallen into madness, on how such nonsensical thoughts had _ever_ breached his mind.

Or this time Odin cast his Sight into his rooms, Loki would be awake, blinking up in confusion, but his eyes clear, no longer gleaming with that mad desperation.

Or maybe this time Odin looked, Loki would be sprawled out on his bed with a book only inches from his nose, wiling away his hours reading as if nothing had happened, and wondering what all the fuss was about.

(The Healers said Loki might not remember everything leading up to his stupor, once he woke. Odin knew it was selfish of him to hope Loki would remember nothing since the day of Thor's coronation. But he hoped anyway.)

(He hoped he could start over.)

Odin closed his eye. When he opened it again, he could not help his gaze from sliding back into Loki's rooms.

( _This time, Loki would be awake. He would be in Frigga's arms, and they would be holding each other, weeping. Frigga would be racing to the door to send a messenger to tell Odin, but Odin would already be running there the moment he saw, duties be damned_ – )

When his Sight focused on the bed, Frigga and Loki still sat side-by-side, Frigga still holding her son close, and Loki still unmoving.

Except Loki's eyes no longer stared into the distance. Instead they had closed, and his body had gone limp in sleep. Frigga had closed her own eyes, laying her head next to Loki's on the pillows.

But where Loki's face was blank, Frigga's was screwed up in pain.

Abruptly, Frigga withdrew her arm from around Loki's body and drew her knees beneath her. Carefully, she shifted until she was kneeling next to his splayed legs, before reaching down and cradling Loki's face between her palms. With a duck of her head, she lay a kiss on Loki's brow, as she had when he was a child, when he always wanted one last touch of affection from her before promising to go to sleep. Then she stood from the bed, taking pains not to jostle Loki, and strode towards the door.

In the flicker of firelight, Odin saw the sheen of tears on her face before she swiped a hand across her cheeks. They reappeared before she had made it to the door.

She left Odin's Sight, but not before he heard a small, muffled pained noise escape her throat.

Through it all, Loki did not move, not even his eyes flickering in his sleep. His chest only rose and fell with a slow, easy rhythm – nothing like the shuddering, gasping sobs that had wracked his body in Bifrost.

Odin hoped that in sleep, Loki's mind found peace from whatever gripped him in his waking hours.

Or perhaps his sleeping body hid the turmoil just as well. And Odin, even with all his wisdom, would never know the difference.

Loki could be suffering inside his head, his mind rattling off the same excuses and explanations he had shrieked out in the Bifrost, and Odin would never know.

( _“They'll all be dead, see? They'll all be gone from the realms._ _ **We**_ _all will be.”_ )

( _“And when they're all gone, you won't need me any more, so I can die too.”_ )

Or perhaps whatever was in Loki's mind was...nothing.

Maybe he was gone.

Maybe Odin had saved his body, saved him from being pulled apart and scattered across the empty space between realms, but that was all.

He hadn't saved the rest of him.

He hadn't saved his son.

He hadn't–

“My King.”

An Einherjar's voice broke into Odin's Sight and his thoughts. Odin scrambled to withdraw his gaze from Loki's rooms, smoothing his face over into something more stoic.

Had fear showed in his one eye as he gazed into nothing? Had despair crossed over his features as he sat on the most powerful seat in the Nine?

As the throne room returned before his eye, he realized it did not matter. The Einherjar before him stood with his head bowed, eyes on the golden steps. Not on his king.

“Yes?” Odin asked, authority ringing from his voice. As it should.

The Einherjar raised his head now that his presence had been acknowledged. “The warriors have arrived, as requested.”

“Send them in,” Odin commanded.

The Einherjar hurried off, and a few moments later, four figures walked down the golden steps to kneel at the foot of the throne. “My King,” each of them said in turn.

“Rise,” Odin said, and Lady Sif and the Lords Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg did as ordered. He did not miss the uncertain glances they shared with each other.

“You said this request was urgent, my King,” Lady Sif said, her voice half-questioning. Her armour was askew and dirty, her face smudged – likely, she had not even had time make herself presentable before being ordered to the throne room. But she would have time enough later. She was last element Odin had been waiting for.

Fandral and Hogun had been easy enough to gather from Alfheim and Vanaheim, after Odin had sent down the proper advisers and ambassadors in their places and had the two of them return to the Bifrost site. But when Loki had sent Sif off towards a group of V _alkyrja, the only way to call her back had been to send Huginn and Munnin out to search, and to order a skiff of Einherjar to retrieve her once she was found._

_Odin had just not expected it to take nearly three days to find her._

_And he did not intent to waste any more time._

_Studying the four faces belowing him_ , he asked, “Are all of you aware of the events surrounding King Laufey's invasion?” By now, Fandral and Hogun must have heard – if Volstagg hadn't told them himself, the palace had spoken of nothing else since – though he was unsure of Sif.

But Sif's face turned grim as she nodded. “Aye, the Einherjar told me on the way here.” Anger flashed across her face – directed at the Jotnar for invading, or at herself for not being in the palace, Odin could not tell. “Did Asgard suffer any injuries?”

“Few. The Jotnar snuck past most of the guards,” Odin said. Whether Loki wished as few casualties as possible, or he didn't want to risk Laufey dying by any hand but his own, or both, Odin wasn't sure. Perhaps Loki's reasoning had been just as mad as his actions, and there was no sense in trying to untangle them. “Heimdall was injured when the Jotnar entered Asgard, but he has since recovered.”

Sif looked relieved at that – she and her half-brother may not be as close as some siblings, but he was still her kin. Then her face grew troubled again. “And...what about Loki?” she asked, and her hands twitched as if she was trying to stop them from fidgeting. “The Einherjar said he has suffered an...an affliction. Did Laufey do something to him?”

A bark of laughter almost escaped between Odin's lips. It seemed he didn't even have to suggest the rumours for Laufey to be suspect – not that rumours of all sorts hadn't abounded throughout the palace, everyone from servants to nobles swapping theories about exactly what horrors the Jotun king had inflicted on Odin's son.

But Odin couldn't even work up the satisfaction at hearing his enemy slandered.

He would have ordered his people to sing Laufey's praises if it meant Loki would be well again.

“We do not know all of the causes for Loki's condition,” Odin said, repeating the same excuse he had used for the court, and the one had been repeating anytime some presumptuous noble had asked. “But we believe the events leading from Thor's coronation to Laufey's attack have sent him into a state of shock. He has not recovered since.” The words had grown easier to say in the past days, and Odin could almost say them without the echoing pang in his heart. Almost.

Sif, on her part, seemed at a loss, unlike the court and their easy acceptance. She stood gaping at him, until she remembered herself and shut her mouth with a snap, then looked to her friends.

Fandral gave her a gloomy nod, while Volstagg stepped forward and lay a hand on her arm. “It is not too bad, Sif,” he said. “When I saw him, he was simply rather...” Beneath his beard, Volstagg lips pressed together as he glanced at Odin. “Distant,” he decided on.

Though Odin kept his face expressionless, he could taste more of that bitter laughter on his tongue. _Distant_ could not describe that empty look, that marionette body.

( _Loki wasn't_ _ **distant**_ , a horrible voice murmured in his mind. _Loki was gone_.)

Perhaps Volstagg thought he was softening the news. Frigga had told Odin of Volstagg's visit two days ago; she had been in Loki's rooms when the eldest of Thor and Loki's friends had knocked.

Whatever Frigga had been hoping for when she allowed him in, whatever Volstagg had been expecting, Odin could not say. A Healer had moved Loki to one of his chairs in his atrium for the afternoon, and Volstagg had stumbled to a halt upon seeing him, his ruddy skin blanching. Loki had only sat there and stared. He sat and stared as Volstagg had recovered and sat beside him. He sat and stared while Volstagg and Frigga had talked over his head about nothing that Frigga could quite recall. He sat and stared when Volstagg had clapped him on the shoulder, only swaying under the weight of Volstagg's hand and no more. He sat and stared as Volstagg offered Frigga heartfelt, almost tearful condolences. He sat and stared as Volstagg had left, and Frigga soon after.

“I'm sure Loki will recover shortly,” Volstagg was saying to Sif, but his attempts to smile looked more like grimaces. “You know Loki, he's always been a stubborn lad, almost as stubborn as Thor, and...well, I'm sure he'll be fine,” he finished off weakly.

Sif did not look very convinced. Before she could ask another question, Hogun stepped forward, deciding to fill the silence. “Is this why you brought us here, Allfather? To inform us of Loki's illness?”

“No,” Odin said. “I brought you here so you would go to Thor.”

The effect was immediate. Gone were the somber looks, the worry, the strain. Instead, it was all replaced by a joy that lit up their faces.

There were no truer friends to his son than those four, Odin was certain. None more fierce, nor more loyal.

( _Was that loyalty why Loki had sent them away? Loyalty to Thor over him? Or had it been to carry out his plans in peace?_ )

( _Had he sent them away so he might die with no one to pull him back from the brink?_ )

“Are we to bring Thor home?” Sif asked, the bright hope on her face matched by the others.

“No,” Odin answered again. Their faces fell, much like Frigga's had, when he had refused over and over, no matter how much she cajoled and argued.

_Loki needs_ _him_ _ **here**_ , she had pleaded. _We_ _ **all**_ _need him_ _here_ _._ _We need to be a family again._

“No,” Odin repeated, trying to drown out Frigga's voice in his mind, “I will not bring him home. However,” he said before any of them could start protesting, “I have amended his sentence.”

There was surprise and delight mingled on their faces. Odin could understand their shock well enough, for he was not known for changing his mind. A king should be firm in his ruling. A king should be strong. A king should not overturn his edict after only a days, and once a decree was set, it must followed through.

It should be simple. Thor had disobeyed Odin's orders, he had taken his friends into danger and had nearly lead them to their deaths, had started a war when he struck the first blow, and after it all he had still believed himself to be in the right. And so Thor should not be returned to Asgard or returned his powers until he proved himself worthy.

But Odin could not.

Not after Loki. He could not.

He saw it in his nightmares. He saw it when he closed his eyes. When it was not Loki – Loki falling into the Bifrost as Odin's hand on closed on empty air, Loki tumbling off of Asgard's edge with a smile on his face and mouthing the words _Are you happy now, Father?_ – when it was not Loki, it was Thor.

There was Thor in his mortal body, broken, bleeding, and lifeless, crushed by a blow that any Æsir should have shrugged off.

There was Thor, withered and old in but a few decades, hunched and weak. Before Odin's eye, Thor's flesh had sloughed off and his bones turned to dust.

Two nights ago, there had been Thor, mud-stained and mortal as he had been after failing to lift Mjolnir, as he has been after Loki had lied to him about Odin's death. And hand-in-hand with Loki, he had walked into the Bifrost's light while Odin screamed at them to _STOP_.

Odin had leapt from his bed that night, the after-image of his sons dissolving into the light seared into his mind, and his body drenched in a cold sweat. Before he could think better of it, he had raced to the Hliðskjálf, ignoring alarmed guards and servants, fearing the worst – Thor, given into despair, all hope lost after Loki's lies.

But when Odin set his eye on Midgard, Thor had been helping his mortal companions clean up after their evening meal. Thor had even smiled at the older woman as she attempted to reach something on the highest shelf before he handed it down to her.

Odin found himself watching until Thor took to his sleeping quarters on the roof, though Thor's demeanour had been as it had always been these past few days: if not entirely happy, he was content around the mortals. And if there was any melancholy to his features, a heaviness to his gait, it did not last.

Thor had not broken, as Loki had. Thor was not one to give up.

(Yet Odin had never thought Loki would give up either.)

All the same, he was more relieved than he would admit when Frigga had righted Thor of Loki's lies, even though Thor's banishment should have meant she was not to contact him unless Odin ordered it. She had taken care of it yesterday, as Odin been had walking from his workroom to their shared rooms. He had been searching for Frigga, and he heard her voice drifting from her one of her balcony rooms. At first he had sped to steps towards her, thinking she was speaking to a handmaiden or a servant, but stopped when he heard Thor's voice.

“I – thank-you for telling me, Mother.” Thor's voice seemed muffled with tears, though whether tears of sorrow or joy, Odin could not tell. Thor continued, sounding bright with hope, “If that is true...may I return?”

Frigga gave a heavy sigh, and Odin could almost see the regret and exasperation on her face. “That depends on your father, and what he decides.”

There was a long silence between the two of them, and Odin decided to creep closer. He knew that Frigga must be using considerable energy to speak across realms like this – she would barely be able to stand when she finished.

When he peered into the room, he could see Frigga with her back to him, her body blocking out Thor's image standing over the scrying bowl. Only the top half of Thor's head was visible, and that was bowed toward Frigga so Odin could not see his face. Before he could think of moving closer, Thor abruptly asked, “Do you know why Loki lied, Mother? Has he told you... _anything_?”

Frigga reached a hand forward, ghosting it over Thor's image. “I do not know, my love,” Frigga said quietly. “He is still too ill to speak. Though perhaps by the time he is well, you will be able to ask him yourself.”

Thor ducked his head, and Odin guessed the two of them were sharing a smile. He wondered if there was any confidence in Frigga's, and if so how much of it was true, and how much was for Thor's benefit. Then Frigga removed her hand and said, “I must go now, Thor. It grows late, and your father is here. He is much too stubborn to talk with you, but he _does_ love you, Thor, we all do. We all want you home.”

Thor nodded, and the two of them leaned forward in a facsimile of a hug, neither quite touching the other. As Odin stepped fully into the room, Thor's image was already disappearing.

Immediately, Frigga started to sway. Odin hurried forward and caught her by the arm, the other arm supporting her behind her back. Letting her lean on him, he lead to one of the chairs at the edge of the room.

“What else did you tell him?” he asked as he helped her sit.

“Why? Do you plan to chide me for speaking to him?” As exhausted as she looked, Frigga still gazed at him calmly, with not a hint of guilt on her face.

Odin quickly shook his head. “No. Not for righting him of Loki's lies.” Thor may have needed humility, but he did not deserve to suffer under such delusions. Half the reason Odin had sent for Sif and the Warriors Three was so they could tell Thor themselves – not only because of their friendship, but because they were of high enough of rank to not be seen as an insult, yet not as high as Odin or Frigga. For if the King and Queen went to Thor, it would be a signal to the council, the nobles, and Thor himself that Thor's crimes were forgiven in all but name; Odin would be seen as making a show of punishment, with no real consequences intended. If Thor thought of it that way, he may decide he didn't _need_ to change, if Odin forgave him that promptly.

But Frigga's disobedience was still a comfort, if a small one.

Frigga must have seen his relief, for a smile flitted over her face and she reached a hand up to cup his cheek. But the hand dropped quickly, and the smile vanished as she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“Why _did_ Loki lie to him?” she whispered. “Why did he _hurt_ him?”

She might have been speaking to herself, but Odin still found himself answering. “I do not know, if it was his madness or...” Odin struggled for some other reason for Loki's actions, just as he had for everything Loki had done since they spoke in the vault.

( _Why did you do it, Loki? Why visit such cruelty on your brother?_ )

Odin had watched it from Sleep. He had heard Loki say that he had died, had watched as Loki assured that Thor would blame himself. He had listened to Loki claim that Odin no longer loved Thor.

( _Was it only your madness? Was it only to hurt him? Or was it something else?_ )

( _Had you planned for those to be your last words to your brother?_ )

( _Did you want him to hate you for it?_ )

The line of thought chilled him. “I do not know,” he repeated, and leaned down, taking one of Frigga's hands between his own as if that could lend him enough warmth to banish the thought. Not wishing to dwell on the questions he could not answer he said, “You have not yet said what else you told Thor.”

Frigga didn't open her eyes. “Only what I thought best, for now. I told him most of what you told the court, except for the falsehoods, and that matters were complicated. I said he would understand them better when he came home.”

Odin drew in breath to ask another question, but Frigga spoke first. “I didn't tell him of Loki's heritage, or what he what he tried to do, if that's what worries you.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, naked pain visible in their depths. “I _couldn't_ , not from here. Even if I believed I could sustain the spell while I told him, some things are better told in person. And I _could not_ torment him with the knowledge of Loki's suffering, then leave him stranded _there_ , unable to help.” Using the chair and Odin's grip to help, she stood. Though she wobbled slightly, her voice was firm as she said, “Odin, you _must_ bring him home. He _needs_ to be here. With _us_.”

But Odin refused.

Like the first time she had protested Thor's banishment, not long before Odin found Loki in the vault, Odin had refused.

Odin would have Thor become _worthy_.

Before the coronation, he had thought Thor was ready, that his son's impatience and impulsiveness could be tempered by the responsibility of the throne. He had thought he could trust Thor to lead, to _think_. But he had been wrong.

Thor had shown he still acted the part of the boy, with no regard for the consequences of _any_ his actions. He had no regard for his kingdom, his people, and his friends, not when he'd rather quest after his own glory.

Thor _would_ be worthy. And Odin didn't believe Thor could learn it here, surrounded by his friends and admirers.

Odin would not bring him home. Even if he wished to, no matter how he felt, he was still king. And a king could not renege entirely on his sentencing.

But a king could change it.

Odin looked over the four eager warrior standing at the foot of his throne, awaiting his command. “As soon as you are ready to leave,” he ordered, “you will depart to Midgard. You will answer any questions Thor may have about the events since he was banished, and dispel him of any untruths or confusion. You will give him these missives.” He nodded to one on the Einherjar, and from a pouch on his belt, the Einherjar withdrew two letters. “There is one from myself, and one from Queen Frigga,” he said as Sif took them.

He had not planned to give Thor a letter, but after considering Loki's lies...he thought it better for Thor to hear from Odin himself. He only told Thor that the Mjolnir was with him for a reason, not for cruelty, but so that he might learn.

He did not know what Frigga's held – probably scathing remarks on Odin's reluctance to bring him home and reassurances of her love.

Neither, as they had agreed, had written a word about Loki's heritage. If not for the same reasons.

Odin had put much deliberation into whether Thor should be told now or not. Before Thor's banishment, Odin had never once believed Thor would harm his brother for being Jotun, but afterwards....after Thor's actions on Jotunheim, after what Loki had tried to do, Odin was no longer so sure. If he told Thor the truth, then Thor would not be worthy of the hammer until he had accepted his brother's heritage, which may delay his return. Yet when ( _if_ ) Thor regained his worthiness on his own, he would no longer be the type of man to harm his brother, if he ever had been.

And, as Frigga had told him, some conversations were meant to be had face-to-face.

“What of the amendments, my king?” Fandral asked as Sif pocketed the letters, his body tensed with apprehension. “You said you wish to change his sentence?”

Odin nodded. “Tell him that his banishment still remains until he proves himself worthy. But I have been watching him these past few days, and I believe his behaviour has improved.”

A king must have reasons for changing his mind, beyond a simple weakness of the heart. And it was true that Midgard seemed to have changed his son; Thor had lost much of arrogance, his wilful, hot-headed anger and pride.

( _Was that enough to bring him home?_ )

Odin ignored the quaver if doubt in his heart and stood, bringing Gungnir to bear before him. “If Thor's behaviour continues, then nine days and nine nights from today, I will return to him the strength of his body, and his immortality.”

He banged the Gungnir on the ground, and the sound echoed throughout the chamber.

The edict of a king, but the mercy of a father.

“When he has no more to ask of you, return to Asgard,” he commanded. He did not doubt that they would take their time.

“Yes Allfather,” Sif said, quickly followed by the others. As the four of them left, he could see the delight in their faces, a lightness to their step as if a heavy burden had been removed. Even Lady Sif's face shone beneath the dirt and grime that had smudged her features.

Odin could not share in their cheer. This was no guarantee Thor would return.

( _What would he do, if Thor did not? What if it took years, a decade, a century?_ )

Odin almost collapsed back into his throne, but was careful to make the movement seem natural.

Nine days and nine nights: that was how long Odin had swung upon the Tree. He hoped the time would give Thor the same wisdom it had given him.

( _ **Wisdom?**_ _Was it wisdom that lead his sons to such a state?_ )

( _He claimed a father's mercy, but how much of a father had he been?_ )

Odin closed his eye, and brought a hand to his forehead. What had happened to his sons? If Thor thought rushing into battle was what was expected of him, if he sought to relive his father's fights and win himself glory, had Odin not acted as enough of a king to him? Or enough of a father?

And as for Loki...

( _Gleaming over-bright eyes, a wide, hopeful smile. “I can even die in battle, instead of taking my own life, if that's what you want. No one has to know you tried to raise me.”_ )

( _“If that's what you want.”_ )

Bile, hot and bitter, rose in back of his throat at the memory. Liquid cold spread through his veins, burning him with its ice, and it was all he could do not to shudder.

Odin couldn't fathom what Loki thought Odin was to him.

Odin couldn't fathom where he had gone so wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not take three months to post again, which I am very proud of. It should have been out earlier, but for one thing Odin's pov is more difficult to write than I thought, and I started working again last month, which took a lot out of me. Luckily, I've began to adjust, but don't count on me being any quicker getting these out.
> 
> I'm sorry that this chapter is rather slow, since it's mostly a conglomeration of putting things in that didn't fit in last chapter, and setting things up for later. I promise that more things will happen next chapter (will be unfortunately be a while now – I've barely started planning it.) 
> 
> Lastly, there is again a lot of ableism in this chapter, for which I am very sorry :( But I doubt Asgard would be very sensitive to issues of disability. As a warning, this type of attitude will continue for quite a while, because warrior-culture-gods do not deal with dependency very well.

 As Odin made his way from his private work rooms to Loki's, he told himself it wasn't cowardice that slowed his steps to a crawl. It wasn't cowardice, and there was the cold, bitter taste of fear in the throat, an echo of the terror he had felt on the bridge.

It was a muted fear that had lurked in the back of his mind, in the empty feeling in his chest. It had been there since he woke from the Odinsleep. And as he approached Loki's rooms, it always grew.

It was the fear of an empty bed and balcony doors wide open, a body crumpled far, far below. It was the fear of bloodstained sheets and knife in a limp hand.

It was the fear of Loki's blank eyes, and that he remained exactly the same as he had been since Odin brought him home.

When at last Odin arrived at the doors, the two Einherjar flanking the room ducked their heads in greeting, but otherwise made no movement. Just as Odin had commanded.

They were to attend to matters inside the room, not outside. To help Loki if he woke.

(To restrain him from causing himself any harm, until Odin was there to do it himself.)

Odin pushed open the doors, the ones that used to buzz and hum with spells powerful enough to repel all but Odin and Frigga. And together, Odin and Frigga had removed them, so the Healers and Einherjar wouldn't accidentally trigger an errant defence spell.

(Odin could imagine how Loki would react when he found out. Loki would fume and rage just like he had three hundred years ago, when Thor had been caught by one of Loki's rather nastier spell and Frigga had erased them all for a month until Loki thought of less harmful ones. Loki had argued that it was all Thor's fault anyway for trying to enter without his permission, that his magic often required intense periods of concentration and he couldn't be disturbed by “idiots” pounding at his door, and that unlike Thor and half of Asgard he actually _valued_ his privacy.)

(And Odin wouldn't care how much Loki stormed about and seethed, or if he refused to leave his rooms unattended lest some “half-wit” stumble in.)

(It would be better than this.)

As Odin entered the atrium, the young Healer stood and bowed her head. She was one of the four Eir had recommend, ones that were as skilled as Eir, but were trustworthy and well-versed in the general arts of healing. And most importantly, they knew how to care for bed-ridden or unconscious patients.

“Allfather,” the Healer greeted, “Queen Frigga is currently with Prince Loki.” She gestured to Loki's bedroom doors at the far end of the room, where Odin could see the dance of orange firelight seeping from underneath the door.

“Any change?” he asked.

For the small of space of breath after the words left Odin's mouth and before the Healer answered, hope wrapped tight about his heart. Maybe this time–

The Healer shook her head. “None, my king. But he ate several hours ago, and has been prepared for bed.”

Odin nodded. The flood of disappointment was too familiar for it to show on his face.

So too was the sharp, guilty feeling of shame.

He knew, because the Healers had told him as part of their protocol, that if Loki had been “prepared for bed” then two of the Healers would have moved him into the mobile chair meant for invalids, and then pushed him into the bathroom. They would have removed Loki's clothes by magic, leaving his body bared, before placing Loki into the bath, careful to keep Loki's injured leg above water. They would have washed him, using a combination of magic and more gentle cleansing on his wounded flesh, then dried him off. They would have dressed him in his night-clothes with a spell, before taking him back to his bed.

And Loki would not have reacted once.

Odin had never heard more of the details, but he could see it in his mind: Loki moved about like a doll, unable to even cover himself.

Loki, who never as much loosened his collar on the training field when other warriors would remove their shirts; who had always disliked the servants helping him dress even as a child, and had asked to do it himself as soon as he could tie up all the laces on his own. It had been even earlier when he expressly forbade anyone but Thor join him while he bathed, right after Frigga had walked in on him and Thor splashing each other in the bath. Thor had no qualms about Frigga's presence, but Loki's little chest had puffed up in indignation and he said that he and Thor were old enough now to take care of themselves (and, Odin suspected, they would be allowed to make much more of a mess on their own). It could not have been more than a century afterwards that Loki decided Thor wasn't allowed in with him either.

Odin hoped, when ( _if_ ) Loki woke, he understood the necessity for such small humiliations, that they couldn't have been avoided – not if they wanted to take care of him.

Though Odin supposed he should be grateful that Loki didn't need to be spoon-fed. The Healers told him about the first time Loki had eaten, when one had placed a bowl of soup in front of him and had brought a spoonful of broth to his mouth, only to nearly drop it in surprise when Loki grabbed the spoon himself, in much the same way he had grabbed Slepnir's saddle when Odin seated him atop the horse. But as Loki ate, his eyes remained blank, his movements wooden, the utensil rising from dish to mouth like an automaton with only one task to carry out.

The Healers told him he always stopped long before the dish was empty.

Odin did not ask the Healer in front of him if the same had happened tonight; gesturing at her to be at ease, he moved past her to the door leading to Loki's bedchambers. It swung soundlessly open, but Frigga still turned as he entered. Seated on the edge of Loki's bed rather than in one of the chairs, she gave him a tired smile over her shoulder before returning to look at Loki. He was curled underneath the covers next to Frigga, one of his hands clenched between her's. As Odin dropped into the seat closest to the head of the bed, he saw that Loki's eyes were wide open, settled on some distant point over Odin's shoulder. As usual.

(It frightened Odin how _normal_ the sight had become.)

(It frightened him that he could imagine it never changing, coming into this room night after night, the same scene repeated with countless variations but one constant: Loki never woke.)

Odin wrenched his head away from Loki to stare at one of the many bookcases crammed into the sides of the room . For the most part the books were neatly ordered, but some shelves had books in rows of two, or even three. And a couple were laying flat at a haphazard angle, as if put there with the intent to pick them back up later.

(He could not helping wondering if they ever would be. And if it would be Loki's hands, or those of another.)

His eye was tracing the gold letters along one of the books' spine, trying to make it out from across the room, when Frigga's voice broke the silence.

“I heard Lady Sif arrived earlier today,” she said. “Is that right?”

She kept her voice overly-mild, so much so that Odin would have to be deaf to miss its bite.

“I thought it better to send the four of them down without delay,” he said calmly as he turned back towards her.

From the Hliðskjálf, Odin had watched Lady Sif and her companions arrive on Midgard and find Thor in the small, sandy village. He had seen the naked joy transforming Thor's face, had seen Thor smile as he had not smiled since his coronation day. Odin had refrained from listening in on their following conversation, instead busying himself with other matters. Still, in the end, much of the remaining sorrow seemed to have been lifted from Thor's shoulders. As Odin had hoped.

Frigga did not returned his gaze. She ran a thumb over the back of Loki's hand, and her voice was icy when she said, “If you wished to be quick, you could simply have brought him _here_.”

“I have told you why I cannot,” Odin answered sharply.

“And I have told you why you _should_ ,” Frigga bit back.

Odin had a retort on his tongue, ready to launch into this same tired argument once again, but he couldn't see the point of fighting when nothing would change. Instead, he sighed and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. His back hunched, a posture he would never allow to be seen using in front of anyone but Frigga. “If I brought Thor back now, half the council and most of the other realms would think I was too sentimental to rule,” he said, and even his voice felt weary. Maybe he had become too sentimental, too willing to let his heart rule him. “Or that I had grown weak, and I could no longer be trusted to mete out proper judgements because of...”

_Because of Loki,_ he had meant to say, but something made him swallow the words. He stared at Loki's blank eyes as Loki blinked at the wall above him. Odin quickly averted his gaze.

“Because I have grown foolish in my old age,” he finished.

Finally Frigga raised her eyes to him, her gaze cool. “There are worse things a king could be accused of than mercy,” she said quietly.

“And I _have_ been merciful,” Odin snapped. He straightened from his hunch, a spark of ire giving him strength. “In only a few days, Thor will no longer be mortal.”

“You should _never_ have taken his immortality in the first place.” Frigga's voice was as hard as her eyes. “You know how frail mortals are, how short their lives can be – he could have been lost to us because of your stubbornness.”

“ _And that is why I will give him it back_.” It was not often Odin admitted he was wrong, even to Frigga. In front of the court, a king could not be seen as uncertain, or erroneous, or else he would admit to weakness – and weakness could be exploited. In front of Frigga, however, he knew it was just as she said: plain stubbornness.

“I won't allow him to die on Midgard.” Odin continued. He had hoped Thor to regain his worthiness long before any injury was visited upon him, yet he could not place his son's life on such a hope, not anymore. “But Thor _must_ learn.”

“And what is stopping him from learning here?” Frigga retorted. “Odin, what if his return helps Loki? Would you deny _both_ your sons the chance to heal?”

“And how is Thor's return supposed to _help_ Loki? What more could he do that we have not? We are sitting scarce inches from him and _he hasn't even moved_ _ **once**_ ,” Odin growled, launching himself to his feet, and inside him something had clenched cold and tight at Loki's stillness, giving nary a twitch despite the shouting occurring almost over-top of him. Anger rose within him, unbidden, and before he could think he snapped, “And have you thought of what might happened if Thor decides he will not abide by having a frost giant for a brother?”

Frigga gaped at him, and for a moment Odin felt guilty for voicing such a farfetched concern. But Odin remembered the war-lust on Thor's face on Jotunheim, the eagerness in his voice to raze Jotunheim when they spoke in Asgard's vaults.

And the happiness in Loki's eyes when he thought he was doing the right thing.

“Thor would _never_ harm Loki,” Frigga said when she had found her voice, shaking her head. “You cannot believe that of your son.”

“I do not _want_ to believe it of him, but _I never believed Loki would try to_ _ **kill**_ _himself either,_ _and now_ _LOOK AT HIM_ ,” Odin roared, flinging out a hand towards Loki, who remained motionless, oblivious. Odin wanted to reach out and shake him, bellow at him with all the strength of his fury, for everything that Loki had _done_ , for refusing to speak a word or _move_ , leaving the rest of them behind to mourn as if he was dead already–

Rage choked in his throat and shook his hands and he shouted, “ _I never once thought_ , ever since I took him home, that he would be reduced to _this – this shell_ , or that he would think that _I_ – that _I_ _wanted_ him to–”

Something else choked in his throat then. The rage vanished, and he found he could not say another word. His legs collapsed beneath him and he sat back heavily in his chair. Then he buried his face in one of his hands.

“What if he doesn't come back to us?” he whispered. “What if – what if his last thought was that I wanted him dead? Or that it was all for the best?”

He heard the shuffle of bed-covers and soft feet on the group, then Frigga's fingers laced with his own. “He is _strong_ , Odin,” Frigga said. “Maybe not in the same ways Thor is, but he has a strength of his own. He _will_ find his way back.”

“And if he doesn't wish to come back?” Odin raised his head enough to meet her eyes where she crouched before him. “I wouldn't let him die in body. What if he decided to kill himself any other way he could?”

Her gaze drew distant, and she looked away, remaining silent for a long moment, her face unreadable. “No,” she said at last. “Loki would make it final.” She looked to him, her eyes wet. “He wouldn't do it this way. Loki would make sure he wouldn't be able to come back.” Her voice broke on the last word.

_Make it final,_ Odin's mind echoed. _Final, like scattering his body across the realms._ _Not even leaving anything to burn_.

He looked past his wife, staring blankly at the side of the bed. He was about to bow his head again, bring it down to Frigga's–

When, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Loki's eyes flicker.

Odin snapped his head up, startled, breath frozen in his chest, _hoping_ –

–But when his eye settled on Loki's face, nothing had changed. Loki still looked into the distance.

It must have been a trick of the firelight. A trick of his tired old eye, half-blurred with tears. A trick of his mind, wishing for something more.

 

* * *

 

Odin should have been listening to Lord Forseti talk about the assessment of tax summations for the year, but today he found the man's voice rather more droning than usual. It was the first council meeting since the week before Thor's coronation, and the council had courteously avoided bringing up all issues relating to the events of the last few days, as that was the king's prerogative. And Odin did not need his councillors squawking away at him to make his decisions.

(Not that he had yet to make any.)

Odin's reticence, however, left only the residue of business to take care of, and it was all Odin could do to keep himself from nodding off as Forseti went region by region for each tax income. A fog of exhaustion overlay his every thought, having spent too many of the last nights tossing and turning, never staying asleep long enough to truly allow his mind rest.

Because whenever Odin dreamed, he was always one step too late. His hand always closed on the empty air where Loki had been, where Loki _should_ have been. Had Odin been fast enough.

Odin knew, each time he awoke cold and shaking but in world where Loki still lived, he should be relieved. Yet all he could feel was fear, the reminder of _what could have been_ lingering in his mind.

It did not help that, as he tried to return to sleep, he could not help thinking that reality was hardly much changed. Not with Loki as he was.

Not if Loki never woke.

The only difference would be that they had a body to care for, and hope that waned a little more each day.

Odin tried to imagine what it would be like, for Loki to remain unchanged as the years went on. He tried to imagine coming to Loki's room night after night until he was too old to make the walk from his rooms to his son's, until Thor took over the ritual for him.

Except Odin _couldn't_ keep Loki around the palace for centuries, or even years. Not if he wished to keep the extent of Loki's state hidden. And it _would_ get out eventually, whether from a noble barging their way in, or a nosy servant sneaking past the guards, or even one of Loki's friends when their tongues grew too loose from drink. As soon as it got out in the palace, it would be only a matter of time before it spread across the realms, for no gossip was as juicy as that about the protectors of Nine Realms. Every corner of Yggdrasil would know of Loki's plight, leaving Loki too vulnerable to enemies and attack, too open to scorn from the everyone from the highest nobles to the lowest servants, too readily used against the royal family.

(Too much of a weakness, if the realms believed it was Laufey who had brought a prince of Asgard low in his final moments. Too much of a shame, for all to know what had befallen Odin's second-born.)

( _Too much of an embarrassment._ )

It would be better if Loki was further from the palace, safe from prying eyes and curious subjects who might disobey the Allfather's orders for a glimpse of the helpless prince.

Odin already had the perfect place in mind – there was a small castle in the countryside meant solely for the royal family's use, and hidden from all but those Odin trusted most. Loki and Thor had even been there when they were younger and more excited about staying in the countryside with their parents than adventuring to the farthest reaches of the realms. Odin could set Loki up there, with a small contingent of servants and Healers to care for him, and some Einherjar to keep him safe. Odin, Frigga, and Thor would visit whenever they could, of course.

(Visit a shell, an empty body being carted around by servants.)

Maybe then Loki, whatever was left him, might be _happy_ –

“Allfather?”

Odin stifled a jerk as he blinked out of his thoughts, and hurriedly looked around the council chamber before realizing it was Lord Tyr who had spoken. “Yes?” he asked tersely, settling his gaze on the man, as if that would help cover that he hadn't been paying attention for the last few minutes. Were the still on the tax summations? Or had they moved on without Odin noticing?

“I was telling Lord Forseti,” Tyr rumbled, glaring at the councillor opposite him, “I believe Jotunheim's matters has no place being discussed now, when we know so little.”

Odin felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Which of Jotunheim's matters?” he asked, command in his voice hiding his apprehension. Norns, when was the last time his attention had drifted so thoroughly that he missed something like _this_? It must have been back in his early days, when he would rather have been out fighting or drinking than cooped up here with his father's councillors, all of whom were long gone now. The councillors with him now had been chosen long after his reign began.

Most of those around the table looked understanding, sympathetic – but not pitying, for none would dare to pity Asgard's king, no matter what state his sons were in – but not all. Lord Yngvi's face was tense and mouth pursed, and Lady Freya barely concealed her annoyance.

Odin ignored them all except Forseti, who he gave an expectant look. He was their king, and considering what Odin had to deal with from _them_ , they could deal with some delays from him.

Lord Forseti cleared his throat as he fidgeted with his notes. “It is only a, er, formality, Allfather. One of the ambassadors from Vanaheim and a couple of those from Alfheim are expressing concern over the use of the Bifrost against Jotunheim, and how Asgard plans to use the Bifrost in the future.”

A cold prickle of unease ran down Odin's spine. “And what of it?” he asked, his voice a touch harsher than he meant it to be.

“We understand that the events are still unclear, and whatever measures that were taken were necessary, but, er...” Forseti shuffled his notes again, looking anywhere except Odin's eye. “They were asking about the question of responsibility...?” He chanced a nervous glance up at Odin.

The unease turned into a spike of fear, and Odin's mouth suddenly felt dry. What happened with the Bifrost might as well be an open secret at this table – the timing of Loki's and Odin's departures down to the bridge were too much of a coincidence; Odin did not doubt that all his councillors, and perhaps a few of the Einherjar, guessed rightly who had turned the Bifrost on Jotunheim and who had turned it off. Yet when Odin had kept matters vague, that meant his councillors should follow his lead, and the Einherjar were much too loyal to let anything slip.

Those from others realm, however, did not have to follow the same etiquette.

Between the declaration of war against Jotunheim and Loki made acting King, it was not entirely crime for Loki to have turned the Bifrost against Jotunheim in retribution. It would never be considered honourable, but it was not anything that would _require_ punishment.

Yet the intent to destroy the realm would be.

Since Yggdrasil's forming there were Nine Realms, and until Yggdrasil's end there would be Nine Realms. Even when Bor had fought the Dark Elves, he had not turned the Bifrost on Svartalfheim – even if the Dwarfs' home of Niðavellir was not built under Svartalfheim's crust, the act would still have been reprehensible.

Odin would have to assure the truth of Loki's intent never got out, which should not be unduly difficult. Yet if these three ambassadors were determined, they still might find some technicality that would condemn Loki.

Making a note to meet with the ambassadors, and judge just how resolved they were on punishment, Odin's met Forseti's quavering stare. “There are certain details that cannot be ascertained until Loki awakes. Those questions remain responsibility still to be answered.”

“Yes, I will inform the ambassadors of that immediately, my king,” Forseti said quickly, scribbling a note on one of his many sheets of paper. Relief settled on him, along with the rest of the room. It seemed none particularly wanted to deal with the repercussions of the unexpected war that was little more than an incident on their end.

“Good.” Odin sat back, trying to swallow discreetly to moisten his dry mouth. He could not feel the same relief as his councillors, his dread instead giving way to disquiet. “Are there any other matters to attend to?” he asked, glad to be moving on. It was always customary for Forseti to go last, followed by any individual affairs before departing for the day. By now, it must be nearly time for the evening feast, though Odin did not feel the usual rumble of hunger that he did after these meetings. Just as the last few days, he only felt a bone-deep fatigue that seemed to have replaced the urge to eat.

After a space of a few moments, when Odin thought no one would answer, Lord Frey abruptly said, “Yes, Allfather, myself and several councillors have a consideration we hoped to bring before you.” He glanced to Tyr, licking his lips nervously.

“Aye,” Tyr said, running his hand through his beard as he took over from Frey. “Allfather, while we know Prince Thor's punishment was just and fair, now that the war with Jotunheim has come to an end, we believe his banishment has been suitable for the damage inflicted. Is it not time he returned to Asgard?”

Odin frowned. He expected pleas to bring Thor home from Frigga, but not from his councillors. They _knew_ the damage another war would have caused, and did not have a mother's love to sway them towards mercy.

Before he could respond, Lord Bragi spoke up, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward. “In a time such as this, when Asgard came so close to being brought low by Jotunheim's vile trickery, it would reassure the people to see the man they thought would be king healthy and hale in Asgard once more.”

_Especially when his brother is not_ , Bragi did not say, and did not need to.

Nods and rumbles of agreement came from around the room. It seemed that “several councillors” meant most of the lot. Odin looked around the room, assessing each councillor in turn. Freya, Yngvi, Dellingr, and Njord seemed to have thrown their lot in Tyr's, while only Idunn's and Forseti's faces were blank. All were waiting. The silence, unlike when they had awaited Odin's decision about responsibility for the Bifrost, was tinged with anticipation, not with nervousness. They all wanted Thor home.

With the councillors in favour, Odin could bring Thor back to Asgard without losing face. He would no longer have to worry about Thor losing his life on Midgard's distant soils. He could tell Thor all that had happened in his absence without any more delay. He could assuage all the doubt and anguish Loki had inflicted with his lies.

He could bring him Thor, who would be without the humility to become worthy of Mjolnir once more, who would be king soon again. Who might forget why he had been banished if he learned nothing from it, whose his friends and future councillors saw nothing wrong with his actions.

(Who might still see a Jotun as an enemy, no matter the bond they shared.)

_See, Frigga?_ he thought to himself. _**They**_ _would not let Thor learn, if he were here. They would only make him worse_.

“No,” Odin said. “Thor brought this war upon us. I will _not_ bring him home to have him repeat the same mistakes, and perhaps next time we will not be so lucky to end the war before it truly starts.”

( _We will not be so lucky to have Loki orchestrate it, then end it for us._ )

“My King,” Tyr protested, “the Jotnar struck first when they snuck in–”

“And I decided that the issue was dealt with,” Odin snapped.“Thor disobeyed my orders and broke the treaty.”

If he brought Thor home now, how many of these councillors would tell Thor his attack was justified? Or that his warring against Jotunheim was exactly what Asgard needed?

What if Thor _listened_?

Odin shook his head. “Thor's sentence will continue for as long as it need be.” Until he was wise enough to _think_ without these vultures doing it for him.

Giving Tyr and Bragi one last, hard stare, he looked at each council member in turn, and all bowed their heads. “Is that everything?”

No one spoke, and Odin could almost feel relieved. Almost, for he was not done yet.

“Then I have a question of my own,” Odin said, doing his best to keep his voice steady, his eye unreadable. “Did you any of you meet with Loki while he was king? Did you offer him advice, or see how well he was taking to his regency?”

( _Did you help him? Did you see what was wrong with him?_ )

For a moment, the councillors only looked between each other. Then Frey leaned forward and said, “Prince Loki was rather busy those days, Allfather. I only saw him once on his way to throne room, and I suggested he hold a war council in a few days, if you had not awoken by then. He agreed before he left, but I suppose...” He shrugged helplessly, a look of regret on his face. “Laufey made his move first.”

“I did speak with him briefly,” Lord Dellingr piped up, as if suddenly remembering. “I offered him advice on how to stall the Jotnar until you woke, if Heimdall saw them making advances. I said it might be for the best to avoid making solid decisions for a few days, in case you countermanded any of them.” He nodded decisively, probably thinking this had been the best course of action for all around.

“I see,” Odin said impassively, though under the table his fists clenched.

Nothing. They had seen nothing.

(It wasn't as if he could hardly expect anything more, could he? Not when even Frigga had not known.)

Dellingr must have seen something of his anger, for he said almost defensively, “Few of us were around Prince Loki at the time, and you had put off most council meetings and other business for a week, to allow–”

“To allow Thor time to adjust after his coronation, I know.” Odin scowled. That had been the plan. All his plans, some of them centuries in the making, and all crumbled to dust in but a few days.

Just as his family had fallen apart.

Abruptly, Odin couldn't stand another minute in this chamber. He stood, bringing Gungnir to his side. “If that is all, then we are done here.”

He did not wait for the rest of the council to rise before he walked out the door. He thought he heard Yngi begin to protest, “Wait, Allfather–”, but Odin pretended not to hear him as he shut the doors behind him.

It hardly mattered that Loki had let none see the truth of his madness, not when there hadn't been any around to see him in the first place; for Loki hadn't so much as taken Odin's place on the throne, as he had taken Thor's. And in those early days, when Thor was meant to receive the throne as new and untried king, Odin had arranged Thor be left with as few duties as possible. Court matter and meetings were delayed a few days, and Odin had cleared up any heavy business before Thor's coronation.

Because Odin and Frigga were going to show him how to be king.

They would have led Thor about the palace and shown him the duties a king had to carry out far from the throne: he needed to watch the troops, consult with the stewards and lords, visit all parts of the palace. Odin would have shown him around his personal workrooms, introducing him to the books, the histories, the laws, explaining what was in them and when each would be needed. He and Frigga would have slowly introduced him to the more meticulous and minute parts of ruling, the paperwork and records and taxes. Together they would have gone to a few small meetings, until they worked their way up to this council meeting today, where Odin would have given Thor lead, but advised him if need be.

But Thor had not been there. And neither had Odin. Nor Frigga.

Loki had been there, alone, with nothing left to him but the war, and to sit on the throne and think.

 

* * *

 

Odin did not attend the evening meal, though he knew Frigga would miss him. He did not think he could stomach the food now, not after the council meeting. He spent his time walking the halls instead, until his feet at last brought him here.

The two Einherjar flanking the doors ducked their heads as Odin approached, as they always did. “Allfather,” the one on the right said. “The Queen has not yet arrived. Would you like to send her a message to meet you here?”

“No,” Odin decided. He ignored the nervous twinge in his stomach, and fought the urge to wipe palms that had suddenly grown sweaty against his overcoat.

Odin had not been here alone since...since....he could not remember offhand. It must have been a long while before Thor's coronation.

The Einherjar stood aside, and Odin pushed his way through the doors. The atrium was empty, which put Odin off-balance for a second. But, he realized, if Frigga was not with Loki in his bed chamber, then the Healer must be. Or she could be bathing him, and Odin would have to wait. Or perhaps Loki would be asleep. Perhaps Odin could pretend that Loki was _only_ asleep, that this was no different from any night from before Thor's coronation, and if Odin walked in now he would only disturb Loki's sleep.

Odin could turn around and leave now, eat with his wife, and come back later, when he always did. He could delay seeing Loki until he had to, and pretend for as long as he could that Loki wasn't an empty shell.

But that would be a coward's way out. Asgard's Allfather was no coward.

Odin walked towards the door at the end of the room, past Loki's bookshelves and desks full of papers and potions towards the door at far end of the room, his stomach churning.

(He couldn't remember the last time he had visited Loki's rooms before the coronation. Was it when he told him that Thor would become king? No, that had been in Odin's private workrooms, with his whole family in attendance. When was it, then?)

He turned the knob to the bedroom and the door swung silently open, as always. But instead of a gentle fire, the evening sunlight streaming in from opened curtains lit the room; and it was not Frigga who turned to watch him enter, but the young Healer who jumped from her chair when she heard his footsteps. She looked at him in surprise, then hastily bowed her head in greeting. “Allfather.”

This Healer was different from the one yesterday, that one blonde with broad features and this one with curly black hair and dark skin, though Odin thought he had seen a few days ago. Maybe he should start learning their names, in case...

...In case he saw more of them.

“Any change?” he asked, his eye on her and not the motionless figure on the bed. The nervous twinge in his belly grew into a pang.

( _Maybe this time, maybe this time–_ )

“I am sorry, my king, but there has been none,” the Healer said, ducking her head again. “He has eaten, but not yet been readied for bed. If you like me to do it now...” She trailed off, looking unsure, and glanced at Loki.

“No,” Odin said quickly. “See to it after I leave.”

Odin had no wish remain while his son was bathed. And if Loki knew Odin had been there while he had been moved about like a child's doll, it would only humiliate him.

If Loki ever knew.

“Yes, Allfather,” the Healer said, curtseying, then brushed past him and out the door. Leaving Odin and Loki alone for the first time since the bridge.

Odin finally looked at bed. At Loki.

Loki, of course, did not look back at him. He sat propped up against his pillows in loose, simple clothes, ones a step up from night-wear (and ones Odin was sure Loki would never wear in public). The bottom of his right pant-leg was shortened, as always, and his hands were folded in his laps while waning golden sunlight bathing his legs; the angle of the light made the bare skin of his injured leg look almost translucent, while the shadows beneath it made it that much more apparent that it was not resting on the bed, but ever so slightly above. When Odin raised his eye to Loki's face, he realized Loki's face was thinner, the simple meals of soup and protein mash taking their toll already.

Loki did not react to Odin's scrutinizing. He stared straight ahead, eyes on centre of the wall to Odin's left. With his folded hands and blank face, it seemed as if he was patiently waiting in a way that usually made Odin wary that some mischief was afoot.

In those times, he had wished Loki could be a bit more tempered, less inclined to play pranks whenever he felt spiteful or vengeful or simply bored.

(He wondered if the Norns had been cruel enough to grant that wish.)

Boots feeling heavy, like they were weighed down by uru, Odin slowly made the rest of his way to the bed. He did not take his customary seat, with its back to the empty hearth, but stood beside Loki's bed and looked down at his son.

Before the Bifrost, the last time he had been alone with Loki was in vault (where it all gone wrong). Yet they had not been this close; Odin had remained on stairs and Loki stayed below, separated by the distance of the hall until Loki had strode closer, his Jotun skin bleeding away to Ás.

Should Odin have crossed that distance himself? If he had come down those stairs and wrapped Loki in his arms as he had on Bifrost's dais, would Loki have believed him?

Or was it not what Odin had done, so much as what he had said?

Again, for what must have been the hundredth time since, his conversation with Loki in the vault ran through his head. Somewhere in his speech, would he find where this madness had begun? Would he discover whatever Loki had twisted in his mind the way he had twisted Odin's words?

_Had_ it been, “ _Why do you twist my words?_ ”

Or something else, something Odin thought innocuous, like, “ _I only wanted to protect you from the truth_ ”?

It could have been anything, anything expect “ _You are my son_ ”, because even Loki could not contort that truth.

Or maybe, as Odin feared, this madness had started long before that day. Perhaps it had been in a conversation before that, when...when...

Odin's thoughts stumbled over each other as he tried to remember. When _was_ the last time he had talked to Loki before the vault? They had briefly been alone after Thor's banishment, but he hadn't had time to speak to Loki properly then. He had walked back to the palace alone while Loki lingered in the Bifrost, only following behind much later. Then there been in the vault after the break-in – though he had never said anything to Loki directly, only to Thor. And in the past months, they had all been busy with Thor's coronation. There had been no time for long conversations.

Was it something small? Some word in passing? Something Odin had forgotten? Something far in past?

If _this_ was all that was left of Loki, how could Odin ever know?

If Loki never came back, then Odin would never understand why. He would never know what he had done wrong.

He would never know why Loki thought Odin wished him dead.

He would never know why his son thought Odin _hated_ him.

“ _Why_?”

Odin had not meant to speak the word out loud. The rough whisper seemed to fill the room before the silence swallowed it again. Loki only sat there as if waiting, waiting for some prank of his to come to fruition and deaf to Odin plea.

Odin still found himself saying, “Loki, _why_ have done this? Why did you do this to _yourself_ , to _us_? To your _family_?”

Loki reacted no more than he had last night, or the nights before. He stared at the wall, waiting.

Odin might as well be speaking to same wall.

If only he could see into his son's head, find out what thoughts were churning and flickering through Loki's brain. It was not the first time Odin had had that wish. If he had been able to see into Loki's mind before all of this, or in the vault, this might have been avoided. If he could just know what Loki was _thinking_ –

But that was usually Frigga's realm, not Odin's. She always understood where Odin could not.

Except now.

Exhaustion washed over him, Odin lowered himself until he was seated on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb it overmuch. His back to Loki, he stared down at the covers, the soft, dark green rumpled from where Loki and sometimes Frigga would sit. As he smoothed his hands over the wrinkles, an idea occurred to him.

There was one thing he could do just as well as Frigga.

He straighten, then shifted so he was more fully seated on the bed. He was about to swing his boots over when he hesitated. Didn't Loki once throw a fuss about Thor putting his dirty boots on his bed? Did Frigga wear her shoes when she did this? He thought she did, but then again, she sometimes wore slippers about the palace, which were significantly less dirty than the boots Odin would wear to the training yards and the stable. And Loki's feet right now were bare, but that meant little when he could not stand on his own, and his right foot could not handle the weight of footwear anyway.

Looking at the mud staining the sole of his boots, Odin grimaced, then bent over and undid his boots' clasps before pulling them off. He put them neatly by Loki's bedside, then slid the rest of the way onto the bed. Awkwardly, knees stiff, he shifted over the bed covers until he was seated next to Loki.

He hadn't been this close to his son since he brought him back to palace on horseback. It was always Frigga who had sat close, but Odin always took the chair.

(Maybe that was _why_. Because it hadn't been Frigga that Loki thought he was trying to please.)

Slowly, with much less grace than he had ever seen Frigga use, he wrapped an arm over top of Loki's back, curling his hand around Loki's far shoulder. He squeezed, drawing Loki closer to him so that Loki was leaning his weight against Odin. Then he looked down at Loki.

Nothing had happened. Loki still gazed ahead blankly. He didn't even have languid sense of relaxation whenever Frigga held him. But it was only as much as Odin suspected.

And yet he had still hoped...

A fool's hope, and nothing more. Loki hadn't come out of his trance since he stopped sobbing in Odin's arms, except when–

Except when Odin _had changed his skin_.

A jolt went through Odin like a strike from Mjolnir. Was that it? Was changing Loki's skin the answer? Of course, last time Loki had gone back into his stupor afterwards, but that was only because Odin didn't have the right words.

Odin would have them this time.

He _must_.

( _I love you and you are my son, no matter your birth – I do not want you dead, I have_ _ **never**_ _wanted you dead, how could you think such a thing you silly boy–_ )

Quickly, heartbeat sounding in his ears, Odin shifted positions so that he was kneeling in front of Loki. One hand grabbed Loki's shoulder, and with the other he picked up Loki's hand from his lap. Still, Odin hesitated before gathering his magic.

Last time, he had changed Loki's Jotun skin back to that of an Ás. Now, he would have to return Loki to his Jotun skin first before reasserting the spell that kept his Ás appearance in place. And yet Odin did not know how Loki might react to his Jotun body.

Would he be frightened? Would he only retreat further into mind? Or would the feeling of his Ás skin return him to himself?

Odin knew he was floundering, just as he had been ever since he woke from the Odinsleep. He seemed to waver on every decision, like he was a boy-king once more and feared any step might be the wrong one, leading his newly-bestowed kingdom into doom.

Here, any wrong step might doom his son.

He could only have faith that, if not the right step, this was at least not the wrong one. Because Odin could not stand by and do _nothing_.

Odin gave Loki's hand a reassuring squeeze, though Loki could not feel. Then, as he began preparing his magic, he glanced up. And nearly dropped Loki's hand in shock.

Loki was _looking_ at him.

His eyes were on Odin's face, not just staring off in the distance behind him, but _looking at him_.

“Loki?” Odin said, and he barely noticed that his voice cracked on the word. He let go of Loki's hand as he reached out to cup his son's face. “Loki, are you–”

Loki did not reply. And his eyes, which had _looked at Odin_ , grew dull and unfocussed. And Loki stared past Odin once more.

“ _Loki_ ,” Odin whispered, searching Loki's face for a sign, a hint that something had been there, that _his boy was with him again_.

He saw nothing.

Odin dropped his hands from Loki's head, then leaned forward and cradled Loki in a hug.

Had he imagined it? Had his hope been so strong that it had fooled his eye? He had thought...he had been so _sure_ –

_No, no_ , it _had_ been real. Odin may be old and weary, but he still had his wits about him, and his eye had not failed him yet.

But it had only been a moment, a fleeting moment. Was it enough?

Odin drew back, his eye once again searching Loki's face for recognition, for _life_.

Loki's face remained stubbornly blank.

But for one second, it hadn't. For one second, Odin had seen his son.

For all the rest of the time, Loki was gone.

Was it a sign that Loki was coming back? Or was this simply all there was left of his son, and nothing more?

Odin stayed, watching, waiting for Loki to show him the answer. Odin held Loki's hand with his own and Loki's shoulder with his other, just as had been doing when Loki looked at him. He cupped his hands around Loki's face. He put his arm over Loki's shoulder, leaning against him. He even took him by the should and gently shook Loki him.

Through it all, Loki did not come back.

Odin stayed until he realized that gloom had replaced the evening light, and that the evening meal must nearly be over by now. Odin had to return to his study, or else risk growing behind in his duties.

Heart heavy, Odin moved to the edge of the bed and pulled his boots back on. Maybe later, he thought, he would change Loki's skin, and see if that brought him out of his stupor. First, though, he would ask Frigga, if she thought it would help or harm. If she thought it might hurt Loki, then Odin would put it off.

But he could only wait so long, if there was even the slightest the chance it might bring Loki back for good.

If he did not come back himself.

With boots clasped done up, Odin slid off the bed and walked towards the door. Only the faintest traces of the sun were apparent on the horizon, shrouding the room in shadows. Still, it was no trouble to find the doorknob and open the door, calling to the Healer to attend to Loki for the time anon.

Odin would return soon enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy August! And happy August long weekend to all you Canadian who celebrate it! Two months is better than three, although this should have been out quite a bit earlier - my brain just had to go and flounce off on me for most of July. The good news is that I have a solid plan for the next few chapters, so hopefully there will be more writing and less fumbling about.

Loki moved in a fog.

It was heavy, suffocating, so thick it could have been water that bore down against him, and an opaque, endless billowing grey.

It was everywhere, surrounding him, pressing up against his limbs and invading his mind. It muffled his thoughts until he was too sluggish to think. It slowed his movements to a crawl, as if he had sunk into the ocean, far beneath its surface where even the sunlight couldn't reach.

But Loki wasn't scared. He didn't _feel_ scared.

He didn't feel much of anything.

Somewhere deep inside him, Loki knew that was a relief.

 

* * *

 

The fog cleared sometimes. Sometimes, it would become slightly less opaque, press less heavily against his limbs.

Sometimes Loki heard Mother's voice, though he could not make out her words – just her soft, soothing tone, the feel of her hand on his, the warmth of her body. And then the fog didn't seem so heavy, and as he relaxed into her embrace, he let himself drift instead of sink.

(And yet whenever he felt Mother's touch, something itched at the back of his mind, something he _should_ know, something that was _important_. It was like a half-remembered dream, or a memory that slipped through his Fingers. But when he tried to dredge it up through the fog, _pain_ would tear through him, bringing with it something that rose up inside him like a wave of endless black, and Loki _knew_ that when it crested he would drown.

So each time, Loki decided to let the fog take him back. The pain would leave, and the wave would disperse. He would feel nothing again, except perhaps the lingering warmth that Mother brought with her.)

Sometimes, other sensations came to Loki. Sometimes he could tell that a bowl of food had been set before him, the smell of it wafting through the fog. He ate, because he knew he had to.

Sometimes he felt hands on him, lifting him up or grabbing him, but they were always too far away to matter and the fog pushed them away quickly enough.

Sometimes it wasn't only Mother's voice that Loki heard through the fog.

Once, he heard Father's voice. Father sounded different from normal, not speaking in his usual commanding tone, but quiet and – and–

Loki couldn't think of the word. What came to mind was _broken_ , but that wasn't right for Father. _Sad_ sounded better, but even that didn't fit. Father could be angry, displeased, distant, _disappointed_ –

But not sad.

The fog in front of Loki's eyes parted as he listened to Father's strange-sounding voice, listened as Mother's voice joined his – both of them quiet, both of them _sad_. He thought he could see two hunched shapes, Mother's golden-red hair on one, and the glimmer of Father's eyepatch on the other.

And then Loki saw Father's eye.

_Father's eye, the last thing Loki remembered seeing, when he had_ –

The black wave rose up in Loki, choking him, gagging him, and Loki felt like he was teetering one the edge of great, endless void, his balance failing. And if he fell, _if he fell_ –

Loki pulled himself back into the fog, and its unfeeling grey.

It was safer there.

 

* * *

 

It happened another time.

Sometime after he had heard Father's voice, Loki felt an arm around his shoulder. He knew it wasn't Mother's, for all stirred some sense of recognition. Yet he couldn't place it.

The arm became a hand, though Loki couldn't tell when or how. The hand felt more familiar still.

Then there was another hand grabbing his, and lifting it up.

Loki knew that hand. He remembered holding onto it as a child, letting Father lead him and Thor onward; he remembered swinging from that hand when he was little more than a babe and laughing in joy; he remembered, in the Bifrost–

The hand squeezed his, _reassuring_. A warm feeling swelled in Loki's chest, filling him up, and the fog split apart. Beyond the gap in the grey and the swirls that lingered in his vision, Loki thought he could see Father in front of him, kneeling with his head bowed.

Why was Father here? Why was he _kneeling_?

Loki was still trying to puzzle it out when Father's looked up.

And Loki began to remember–

_Father's hand against his – against a_ _**monster's** _ _hand, but the monster's hand was Loki's–_

_Father looked down at Loki and Loki knew he had_ _**failed** _ _, had failed Father and failed Asgard_ _–_

Father had dropped Loki's hand, his mouth was moving and his eye had filled with panic, but Loki barely noticed.

Black began to fill his vision. Loki struggled to push his way back into the fog, away from the black wave threatening to drown him, the wave of _despair, hurt, disgust–_

The soft grey took him, and Loki sunk into its embrace.

 

* * *

 

Mother was holding him close, her voice murmuring in his ear. If Loki concentrated, he thought he might be able to make out what she was saying.

But he didn't feel like parsing through her words. He felt drowsy, lost in warmth and comfort, and he wanted to lay back on the...the...whatever was behind him, and sleep.

He did not dream whenever he slept. Or, he did not think he did. Maybe he _did_ have dreams, but forgot them when he woke.

Loki was pondering whether or not he recalled any dreams the fog, or if he perhaps dreamed _of_ the fog, when Mother's voice stopped.

It wasn't like when she paused to take a breath, or when she hesitated before launching into something else to say, but like when she got up to leave. Though Mother hadn't moved away yet, Loki felt a pang of regret. He wanted her to stay, with the sensation of her hand running through his hair as he drifted off to sleep.

But then he heard another voice. It was a woman's voice, the cadence of her words different from Mother's soothing tones. A second woman joined in, and Mother spoke once more.

Loki was curious. He rarely heard anyone other than Mother's voice, and Father's that one time.

Mother moved away, and Loki mourned her absence until her hands returned, along with two other pairs. He felt himself being lifted, and when a surface returned beneath him, it was much harder and sturdier than before.

Mother's hand lay on his shoulder, her fingers squeezing lightly, and Loki relaxed into the sensation. Then there was the feeling of being moved, though no hands were on him but Mother's. At the moment, however, Loki did not feel like contemplating that conundrum further. He still felt sleepy, and didn't appreciate being moved from the soft place he had been with Mother.

None of the hands acknowledged his annoyance, for when they came to a stop they lifted him up again, Mother's hands and the two women's. They set him down on an even harder surface, and Mother's hands – or Loki thought they were Mother's, because they had her gentle touch – moved one of his legs upward before letting go. His leg stayed there, which did not feel so odd – it had been at that angle before, Loki realized: at other times when he had been deeper in the fog.

Mother gave his shoulder a squeeze, carded her fingers through his hair, and then her hands were gone. Loki waited for her to come back, for her warmth reassuring warmth against his side. But she did not, and Loki felt her loss as keenly as he did each time she departed.

But the loss faded as the fog closed in again. The touch of the hard seat beneath him began to ebb.

Until the air abruptly became cool, and the seat much rougher than before.

That was...strange.

Loki began to feel uneasy. 'Uneasy' was a feeling he did not like. Perhaps he should pull himself back into the fog...

Except now there was another sensation against his skin. Warm, wet. Not like the ocean he sometimes felt he was sinking in to – the one that pulled him down and clogged his senses – but relaxing. Like the baths he would take after sparring, where he would soothe every ache and bruise (and there were always many aches, and more bruises). It was like the baths where he and Thor used to play and splash each other, only getting a quick scrubbing in at the end when either Mother or their nursemaid asked if they were nearly done.

( _Thor_ , there was something about Thor he should remember, because if Thor _knew_ –)

The black wave, tinged with fear and revulsion, threatened to swallow him–

A hand touched Loki.

A hand touched Loki's skin. His _naked_ , _wet_ skin.

More hands joined the first. Hands on his leg, on his stomach, on his chest, rubbing against him, _touching him_ –

Loki panicked.

He lashed out, black wave and grey fog forgotten, and knocked aside the hands on his chest. Except there were still more, so he reached out with his magic and _pushed_.

The hands disappeared. Loki thought he could hear voices, high-pitched and _loud_ , but that didn't matter so much as getting _away_. He flailed his arms out, searching for the edge of his bath, and through the fog he could see the gold of its rim and the white tile floor of his bathing room just beyond.

Loki launched himself at it. Even with his limbs as heavy and uncoordinated as they were, he managed to get his hands on the tile. One hand grasping at the edge of the bath and the other pushing against the floor, Loki dragged himself out of the water and onto the cold floor–

( _Cold, how could the floor be cold when he was a_ –)

With a sickening thump and a cry that Loki felt more than heard, Loki's right leg came tumbling from its perch and onto the tiles. The white of pain cut through both the fog and the black he had felt encroaching, focusing Loki's world down to one point.

It only lasted for a moment though, because soon Loki could feel the floor against his wet, bare skin, could hearing shouting and footsteps, and could see the shoes of those who had been touching him in the corner of his vision.

Again, Loki pushed outward with his magic, hoping to buy himself a few moments. There were more shouts, which Loki ignored. With a thought – sluggish though it may have been – he conjured his clothes.

And summarily realized his mistake – he had forgotten to dry himself off first, and now his clothes stuck to him, twisted and stiff. Worse, against the bottom of his right leg, the fabric and leather scraped and burned, like it was grinding into skin that already throbbed in pain.

Still, Loki attempted to raise himself to his feet, though he remembered trying to stand before and falling, and the odd feeling in his foot–

Through the wisps of the remaining fog, Loki could see two women in blue, a man in the gold armour, and in the open doorway a flutter of flowing gold fabric–

Loki tried to put weight on his right leg. As he had feared, he fell.

He caught himself on his hands and knees before his head hit the ground, but Loki knew he _couldn't_ let his leg stop him, he couldn't let those hands come back–

Loki stilled when he heard Mother's voice.

It had the soft, soothing tones of a thousand childhood memories, yet there was a lilt to it he only heard while in the fog, a sort of quiet melancholy.

Loki raised his head, and saw Mother slowly coming towards him, half-crouched. Her flowing gold dress trailed in the puddles on the floor, and her mouth moved in words Loki couldn't hear beyond a murmur. She reached forwards, hand outstretched to cup his chin, and–

_No_.

No, she _couldn't_.

Loki threw himself backwards, and at last he remembered _why_ there was something wrong whenever he felt Mother's touch, why that itching in the corner his mind made its way through the fog.

She _shouldn't_ touch him.

He couldn't let her.

He could not let her _debase_ herself by touching him, defile herself in his embrace, or let her hurt herself because he–

( _Blue, ugly monster's talons_ _ **clawing**_ _at pale, wrinkled_ _Ás hands, and what if he_ _ **hurt**_ _Father, what if his skin burnt and blackened him_ –)

He could not let his mother be hurt for a _Jotun runt_ –

The great, yawning, endless black wave washed over Loki as he heaved himself into the fog, enveloping himself in its grey.

Loki felt nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Nothing” did not last forever.

Before he next fell asleep, Loki could hear the murmur of voices.

Mother's voice.

Father's voice.

They were soft and they were loud – Mother's voice was more often soft, and Father's more often loud.

It was not long after the voices breached his awareness that Loki _remembered_ , and the black wave began to choke him until the grey sealed everything over.

Then the fog receded again. The voices were back, Mother and Father murmuring to each other as if Loki had gone away for no time at all.

(Maybe he had been. There was no time in fog.)

The cycle repeated, Loki falling in and out of the fog's confines, until one time when the fog retreated, the voices had gone quiet. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and felt nothing but soft warmth.

There was no reason to stay above the fog, Loki decided. And no reason to stay awake either, especially not when his earlier nap had been so rudely interrupted by–

–By something he did not want to remember.

( _But there had been hands on him,_ _ **touching**_ _him, and then Mother came, reaching for him_ –)

Loki let himself fall into sleep, nudging back his thoughts as the fog closed in.

That night, he dreamed.

The dreams were little more than colours, filled with blue and red and gold and a blazing rainbow, and the feelings of ice and cold and fear. But it was more than the grey.

 

* * *

 

When Loki next woke, it wasn't to the grey blankness of the fog, or at least not entirely. The fog remained there at the edges, making his limbs sluggish, the world a blur as if seen through a haze of smoke. It was like he was half-asleep, part of him still caught in a dream and part of him forced into the waking world.

What was worse, was that he could _feel_. As the memories of last night trickled through his head, Loki remembered his panic when the hands were on him, remembered Mother reaching for him, and remembered why she _shouldn't_.

And it _hurt_.

Mother had to stop. They all had to stop, to just let him _go_ . Why didn't they understand? Didn't they know what he _was_?

Why was he still _alive_?

The thoughts tore at him, and Loki needed to dive back into the fog, so he could forget the pain, the memories, and everything that made the flood of thoughts unbearable.

Except when the fog began to roll over him, Loki also remembered why he couldn't let it. He knew that he couldn't stay there, not if he wanted them all to stop, and not when he needed to _explain_.

The fog hadn't folded over him as completely as it used to, and just like last night it soon receded. But just as with last night, he thought and felt and hurt again, and again he tried to banish it all in the fog.

Loki wasn't sure how long he lay there, mind cycling through fog and pain and fog, endlessly going around in circles, when he saw the light around him abruptly change.

A shadow. It was a shadow, falling over him.

Loki blinked, then twitched as something soft and heavy and warm rose off of him, letting cool air drift over his skin. It was a blanket being removed, he realized. He hadn't known there was a blanket on him in the first place.

Another blink, and Loki noticed that there was a swath of blue in front of him, rippling gently in the wind. Not, no the wind – from the movements of the person wearing it.

Loki knew that the blue fabric meant something. Especially this shade of it. He was still puzzling it through when hands suddenly grabbed on him, two on his legs and two on his arms

_No, no, stop, you can't–_

Loki batted them away before he could think, before he could remember why that was _wrong_.

_They wouldn't want to touch him, if they knew what he was – a nasty, brutish, violent_ _**beast** _ _, striking at whatever came close, harming innocents because that's just what monsters_ _**did** _ _, even if he didn't mean it–_

( _Like dirty black claws on Father's hands–)_

He pulled back, curling into himself, and drove further into the the fog before he could remember that he had to stay.

By the time the fog receded again, Loki found himself sitting in a chair, one that was moving. No one was touching him, though ahead of him he could see same swath of blue from before. Loki squinted, trying to bring his surroundings into focus, but it was hard to concentrate on more than one thing at once, especially when he was moving.

Luckily, the chair came to a stop soon enough. Glad for the respite, Loki took the moment to look around...when the hands came back, two at his shoulders.

This time, Loki didn't lash out. He ducked away, tucking his arms to his chest and trying to draw in his knees as close as he could. Miraculously, the hands stopped, lifting off of him, and Loki relaxed back into the chair in relief.

There was movement in front of him, and two women appeared in Loki's vision, peering down at him. They were Healers, he realized – that was what the blue dresses signified.

One Healer began moving her mouth, and Loki thought he could hear a murmur of sound as if it came up from under water, but nothing clear. The talking woman turned the other, saying something as she made a shooing motion. The second Healer disappeared, while the first gestured to something just behind her and moved to the side, her voice still mumbling softly. Loki blinked his groggy eyes and squinted, attempting to focus on the object she indicated.

It was an armchair. Loki's armchair, the one that sat in his entry-room.

The Healer wanted him to sit on it, he surmised.

( _But why was he in his rooms? Why was he_ _ **here**_ _, with Healers no less?_ )

Frustration bubbled inside Loki. If his thoughts weren't so slow, he could have figured out the answer by now. The most he could figure out now was that if he sat in the armchair, the Healer would stop trying to touch him.

She probably didn't know what he was, and that she should stop; it would be cruel for Loki to take advantage of her ignorance.

Though it felt as if he moved through treacle, Loki began to rise to his feet. A memory flashed through his mind – more a feeling than anything else – and before he fully put his weight down, Loki instead rose only to his left leg. Then he had to look around to find the chair again, and spotted it below him.

Awkwardly, Loki turned, using the chair for balance as he hopped on one leg. Once he felt his armchair's seat against the back of his knees, Loki let himself fall backwards.

The breath _whooshed_ out of him when he hit the cushion, but other than that, nothing felt wrong. Loki leaned back against a pillow, and realized that he couldn't see the Healer, or her blue dress.

When she didn't reappear, he began to forget why she was important.

Loki drifted. His mind wasn't entirely grey, like the fog, but...clouded. Thoughts came and went, never staying long enough for him to make any sense of them.

Until Mother's voice cut through the murk of his mind.

Loki sat up, blinking rapidly, urging the room before him to resolve more quickly than his damned eyes could manage. He couldn't see Mother at first, and he swung his head from side to side, eyes roving about the room as they searched. At last he caught sight of her beyond the back of his chair, near the entrance to his rooms, her skirts swishing back and forth as she rushed towards him. She rounded the chair and stopped just in front of him. Her eyes, widened and incredulous, met his, and her mouth opened in what might have been a gasp.

Mother fell to her knees, her dress pooling on the carpet, and Loki knew that was wrong. He tried to protest.

_You shouldn't be kneeling, Mother, not before me._

She must not have heard him, for she didn't respond. Instead, she smiled at him, her eyes wet.

Slowly, her hand wrapped around one of Loki's own where it lay on the armrest. Loki stayed still, absorbing what comfort he could, because he knew he couldn't keep it. When Loki didn't move, Mother reached up her other hand to cup his face. Her mouth moved, and Loki thought he could make out words.

_“Loki, Loki, my son”_ , she was saying. She was crying, and her hands were warm.

Loki wanted to accept it, wanted to lean her the touch, like he had when was child. When he was hurt and needed her comfort, her hand would stroke back his hair as she told him stories or sat him on her lap as she weaved.

Her hands were warm. But Loki's skin was cool.

He would never be warm.

As gently as he could, Loki removed hand from her grasp and pulled it back to his chest. With just as much care, he drew back his head from her hand, leaving Mother's hand lingering in the empty air.

Mother's smile vanished. Her eyes searched his, uncertain and shining with grief, and Loki wanted to leap back into her arms, to make her smile come back.

He didn't.

_I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry._

For another moment, Mother stared at him sadly. Then she stood up and moved away, out of his line of sight. When she spoke it again, it didn't seem directed at him, and her voice had a sorrowful lilt.

Loki didn't even try to listen in. Instead he sank into the cushions while her voice and those of two other women washed over him.

He hadn't wanted to hurt Mother. He would never want her hurt. Yet the longer she remained around him, the greater potential for just that.

Jotnar couldn't help their destructive tendencies. It was part of them, as natural to them as breathing. And as much as Loki wished his Æsir upbringing had prevailed over his blood, he knew he would be deluding himself. Everyone on Asgard knew that the second prince was treacherous, slippery, and fought without honour, just like a Jotun. Being raised on Asgard had only staved off the inevitable.

Loki had already sent Father into the Odinsleep, nearly killing him. He had allowed Thor to reach Jotunheim when they'd all been meant to remain in Asgard, and his carefully laid plans had ended in war and Thor's banishment. It was only a matter a time before Loki brought Mother down, even if only by an accidental brush of his frozen Jotun skin against her's.

Loki didn't even know why he was still _here_. Shouldn't he have been thrown into a dungeon somewhere? What did Asgard _want_ with him? What could Asgard want with a _Jotun_?

_To kill it_ , was the only answer he could come up with.

So then why–

A door slammed open, the _crash_ of wood against wood reverberating more in Loki's mind than against his eardrums. He sat up, looking around for the source of the noise. It seemed to come near the entrance to his rooms, where Mother had come in earlier. Loki twisted his head around, looking over the top of his chair–

And locked his eyes with Father's.

Loki froze. Ice flooded through his veins as his heart seemed to stop in his chest. He couldn't breathe.

_It hurt_ – _by the Norns it_ _**hurt** _ _–_

But the rest of the room didn't freeze, and Father was moving rapidly towards Loki, his one eye never wavering.

Loki's limbs began to work again, and he launched himself from the chair, away from Father.

( _Like in the Bifrost, launching himself at the light, away from the steps, away from Father–_ )

But Loki forgot about his leg, and like in the Bifrost, he barely made it one step before he crashed to the ground; though he fell onto wood rather than polished gold, Loki still felt like shrieking. He couldn't run, couldn't walk–

( _The Bifrost, catching his leg in its light and bending and_ _**tearing** _ –)

Loki crawled backwards, the only movement left to him. He scrambled on hands and his one foot, not caring that he felt wetness on his cheeks because it didn't matter, he just needed to get _away_ –

( _It was all supposed to be over now, he was supposed to be gone, it was supposed to stop_ _ **hurting**_ _–_ )

They were all coming towards him now, Father and Mother and the Healer, but Father was closer. He reached forward, blue eye wide with shock, with dismay, with _shame_.

( _But never in pride. All Loki's plans, everything he had done, it just wasn't enough and Father would never look at him with pride–_ )

Father held his hand out towards him, and Loki wanted to scream.

_No, no, no, go away, get away, don't–_

The sound of sobbing or wailing reached his ears, he didn't know which–

_No, no, no, DON'T–_

Father abruptly pulled back, like Loki was a snake that had bitten him. He stared down at Loki, a deep weariness to his face. And, like before in Bifrost, like always, Loki saw disappointment in his eye.

( _Again, again, again–_ )

But how could Father ever look on him with pride when Loki _disgraced_ him, crawling on the floor like a lame dog, like a _worm_? When Loki let weakness take his mind, his body? When Loki had tried and tried and _failed_?

(Why did he bring Loki back? Why was Loki here? Why had Father _kept_ him?)

Loki didn't want to see that disappointment, or that regret – regret that Father taken him and raised him, and Loki had turned out to be _useless_. Disappointment that Loki turned out so weak, that Loki was never _more_ , like Thor was. Disappointment that Loki turned out so craven by attempting to take his own life – that was not the warrior's way, not the way Loki had been taught, even if he was a frost giant. It was the wrong way, the coward's way.

Loki never wanted to see that look from Father again. He would rather that Father never see him than have to face that look every time Father set his eye on him.

Cowering on the floor, Loki didn't notice the tall figure of the Einherjar until he was looming over Loki, spear held loosely at his side.

Father must have called the Einherjar over, Loki realized. Now that Father knew how truly useless Loki had become, the Einherjar must be coming to kill him.

_Good_ , Loki thought, as the grey fog and black waters swallowed him whole.

 

* * *

 

“Odin.”

Odin didn't respond. He stared blankly down at the trade document on his desk, the one he was supposed to have completed last night, before abandoning it when heard the news from Loki's rooms. He had been staring down at the document even before Frigga slipped into his workrooms, though he had given up working on it long ago.

This hadn't been meant to happen when the messenger came bursting into his reception quarters this morning, interrupting his discussion with Lord Yngvi and one of the stewards. This hadn't been meant to happen when Loki at last woke from his stupor.

Odin had been meant to make things _better_.

“ _Odin_ ,” Frigga repeated, worry in her voice. “ _Please_ , talk to me.”

Odin sighed and pushed the trade document to the side, then finally looked up at his wife. She stood before his desk, hands on its edge and her eyes tired. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, impatience underneath the exhaustion in his voice. “You saw how he looked at me, like I was some sort of – of monster, or demon that had come to haunt him.”

And for life of him, Odin could not _understand_. How had Loki come to this?

Maybe whatever madness infecting Loki's mind was more insidious than Odin had thought.

Frigga came around the desk and lay a hand on his shoulder. Gently, she said, “You don't know that's truly how he feels about you, nor was it only you he reacted to. Healers Beyla and Ilmr said he cringed away from them, and when I tried to comfort him, he turned from me–”

“But he did not try to _run_ from you. Or failing that, _crawl_.” The words came out as a growl, though Odin knew he was being disingenuous – from what Frigga had said, Loki had done his best to crawl from her last night.

The knowledge did nothing for his temper. Angrily, Odin pushed his chair back and stood, storming towards the terrace and into the midday sunlight.

Yesterday night, Odin thought everything had changed once Frigga told him of what had happened in the bathing chamber. Frigga had finished a meeting sooner than expected, and decided on an early dinner before going to visit Loki. Which meant she arrived not long before the Healers usually bathed him. Frigga had elected to wait in Loki's rooms as the Healers did their job, until she had heard the commotion from the bathing room.

After Frigga told him of everything she and the Healers had seen, Odin had been sure Loki's reaction was only born of the confusion of finding himself in the bath, surrounded by strangers. _Of course_ he had been afraid, fear driving him to defend himself and run from those he must have seen as attackers. Forgetting or ignoring the damage in his leg – the Healers had needed to patch up it before they could finish bathing him, and had taken extra precautions to keep the limb from harm – was natural, since Loki had yet to be told about it.

When Loki woke properly, when Loki found himself surrounded by safety and comfort, Odin knew Loki would come back to himself.

Once again, Loki had ended up surprising him.

(Sometimes Odin wondered if he had ever known his boy at all.)

When Odin had burst through Loki's doors only a few hours ago, rushing towards his son with the intent to take him into his arms and talk with him until things were made _right_ , he had never imagined that Loki would run from him again. But Loki had done that and more. The memories were burned into Odin's mind the same way as those few frantic minutes in the Bifrost – the _terror_ in Loki's eyes when he saw Odin, flinching away as if his touch burned, and the desperation as he scrambled across the floor as Odin tried to help him up.

And then there were the sounds. The panicked noises as Loki crawled away from him, and the sob of fear that tore through Loki as Odin had reached out–

Loki had gone limp, eyes blank once more, by the time the Einherjar carefully picked Loki up from the floor. One of the Healers had prudently fetched the Einherjar as the rest of them had stood there gawking; as she directed him to take Loki back to his bed, the other Healer had come up to Odin, head bowed but dark eyes obstinate when she gazed up at him.

“I think it's best that you leave, my King,” she had told him as respectfully as possible, while still directing him towards the door.

Odin had put up an argument, for appearance's sake – a king should not seem easily pushed around by his subjects, even the Healers.

But he no more wanted to stay than the Healer wished him to upset her patient.

He couldn't bear to see his son look at him like that. Just as he couldn't bear Loki's words on the Bifrost.

Frigga would have gone with him then, but Odin insisted she stay; one of them had talk to the Healers, and be there in case Loki woke again. Odin knew that could not be him.

“Odin,” Frigga said softly, breaking Odin out of his memories. She joined him on the terrace, and though her voice was calm, she could not hide the tremor underneath. “Neither you or I know what Loki is thinking, but it's been less than half a day. We cannot expect him to heal all at once.” She ran a hand down his arm lightly. “You must give him _time_ , and when he's ready, we–” There was a break in her voice as her hand squeezed his. “Together, we can find out _why_ he runs from us. But we cannot force it on him.”

Odin glanced over at her. “You said the same two nights ago,” he said in a voice that was not quite a grumble.

For a moment, a smile flitted across her face, brightening features that had been steeped in too much sorrow since the day Odin banished Thor. “And the same remains just as true,” she replied.

Two nights ago had been the night after Odin had visited Loki on his own, when Loki had _looked_ at him with awareness in his eyes. Once he and Frigga had returned to their rooms, Odin suggested his idea of changing Loki's skin to prompt him out of his stupor.

Frigga had been appalled.

“You can't _force_ him through the change. You don't just change his skin, but his whole _body_.”

“I know that, it's _my_ spell,” Odin snapped. “And I have done it before – I had to do it on the bridge, and–”

“You did it _only_ because it was _necessary_ ,” she argued. “Not now, when you would put his body through the change without him knowing–”

“And it might _still_ be necessary–”

Frigga talked over him as if he hadn't spoken. “And considering what he just tried to do to _himself_ and _Jotunheim_ , it would do more to harm than good if you forced him into that body.”

That stopped his argument in its tracks. Odin could say nothing, lost in the horror and the memories of the Bifrost and _what could have been_. Frigga seemed about the same, regret and fear shadowing her eyes. They stood staring at each other from across their sitting room, until Frigga took a deep breath and said quietly, “It's only been _days_ , Odin. If he needs the time, we should give it to him.”

“And how long should I wait?” Odin demanded, to cover the panic still beating through his chest. “How long should I wait as my boy wastes away?”

“A month,” Frigga had decided on. “Give him a month.”

A month had seemed so far away. It was much longer than he had given Thor, too much longer, and yet so much shorter than Odin had feared.

Then yesterday night came, with Odin racing towards Loki's rooms at Frigga's summons. He had wanted to attempt to wake Loki there and then, but he had held back. Yesterday night, Odin had thought all his worries for nought.

Now, he was right back where he had started.

It hardly mattered how he wanted to help Loki, if Loki would not let him get close.

Odin rubbed a hand across his face and drifted over to the balcony railing “What did the Healers have to say about his condition?” he asked, looking out over the view. One of Frigga's gardens lay below, trees and blooms of flowers dotting the green, and beyond it Asgard's city dominated the rest of the view.

Frigga leaned down on the railing beside him, her hands clasped over its edge. “Healer Ilmr says this change is very good, and with the proper environment and stimulation, she expects Loki will stop falling into his stupor with a few days.” Frigga paused, and Odin didn't dare ask if a “proper environment” excluded him, although he knew the Healers wouldn't deny him entry if he demanded to be let in. That didn't mean Healer Ilmr couldn't strongly “suggest” it.

However, if the Healer had given any sort of hint, Frigga didn't voice it. Instead, eyes on the towers gleaming in the sun, she said, “For now, though, she believes most of what he experiences is still quite...internal.”

Odin frowned at her. “And what does that mean?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Frigga said, glancing up at him with a crooked, rueful smile. “But they are guessing that it is why he didn't speak, and didn't seem to hear us when we spoke. It also means that unless there is direct stimulation for him to react to, he will likely remain unresponsive.”

Odin's frown deepened. He not realized how strange it was that Loki hadn't spoken any decipherable words to him; until now, he had attributed it to Loki's fear and whatever other madness encroached on his mind. But that he apparently hadn't spoken to either Frigga or the Healer...if there was something more...

He didn't hear the faint knock at the door at first, nor did he notice Frigga leaving his side, until the knock sounded a second time. Odin jerked out of his thoughts, and rushed to catch up to Frigga just as she reached the door.

It _must_ the messenger with the request he had asked for – it had taken long enough–

Yet when he opened the door, it was Lord Yngvi who stood waiting for him.

“My king – ah, and Queen Frigga,” Yngvi said, bowing his head to each in turn. Frigga inclined her head politely. Odin did his best not to let his disappointment show as Yngvi looked back to him. “Allfather, I was wondering when it might be a good time to finished our discussion from this morning? The steward is ready whenever you are, and the decisions about the arrangements for the Æsir-Vanir hunting party need to be made before the season is out.”

“The...yes, the hunts.” Odin had forgotten about the discussion; he could barely remember what they decided on, if anything. “Perhaps...later, I am waiting on another meeting at the moment.” Frigga glanced at him curiously, but Odin held his silence. It wasn't something he wished to speak of in front of Yngvi, or anyone but Frigga, for that matter. He would have to speak to her once Yngvi left.

“I see,” Yngvi said, nodding. Although not before Odin caught the annoyance that flashed across his face.

Odin narrowed his eye. But before any of them could speak, a Dwarf with a luxurious brown beard trundled up to the door, inserting herself neatly into the space between Yngvi and Odin.

“King Odin, Queen Frigga,” the Dwarf said as Yngvi stepped back in surprise. She bowed as deeply as Dwarfs usually before any Æsir royalty, which was not very deep at all. “I am Sindrig, representative of the Iwaldri Smithing Guild. We have agreed to your proposal concerning Prince Loki and wish to meet to finalize any adjustments or concerns.”

At Odin's side, Frigga stiffened in what Odin assumed was surprise, and Odin tried very hard not to look at Yngvi's reaction. When he had requested the guild be as expedient as possible, he should have realized they would take that to heart, and choose speed over secrecy. Dwarfs always did things their own way. Or perhaps they simply didn't care what an Æsir king thought of them, so long as he hired them for their work. Odin would have to speak to them about that.

“Please, Smith Sindrig, lead on,” he told the Dwarf, before she could say any more. Giving Yngvi a warning glance that he hoped would prevent him from asking why Loki was in need of a Dwarf smith's services, he said, “I will meet with you this evening to discuss the hunt.” That should mollify the man.

Then he side-stepped the councillor with Frigga on his heels, her shoes clacking sharply against the ground.

Once they were outside of the hearing range of Yngvi and the guards posted near Odin's doors, Frigga slowed her steps, pulling back from the Dwarf. Odin matched her pace, thinking she wished to know about his proposal for the Dwarfs, and was startled when she wrapped her hand tight around his arm. Through bared teeth that resembled a smile to any watching, under her breath she hissed, “Please tell me you haven't commissioned a replacement _now_ to pressure Loki into _cutting off his leg._ ”

Odin looked at her in amazement. “Do you really think me that crass?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice as low as her's.

The look Frigga levelled at him gave him his answer. She must have decided it wasn't enough, because she said, “You were the one suggesting that we cut it off when he was still–”

“Yes, I know,” Odin interrupted, surreptitiously glancing about to assure none were close enough to overhear. If Frigga hadn't already taken care of that problem with a spell. Ducking his head down to Frigga's ear, he muttered, “I assure you, this is something far more temporary. You won't have any objections.”

Frigga pursed her lips. “I will judge that for myself,” she said, but let go of his arm. “Next time, though, warm me when you make a decision like this. I would like some input into my son's well-being,” she added acidly, and Odin thought she was referencing Thor, as well as Loki. She pulled away, drawing closer to the Dwarf smith, and Odin let her go.

She would come around when she saw his plans. Odin saw no reason for her to disagree.

It was only a wonder that Odin hadn't thought of this sort of solution before.

Remembering Loki trying to run away, only to fall and crawl backwards across the floor, all his usual grace vanished and his movements as ungainly as a child's...Odin felt the familiar spike of shame in his belly. And the guilt that always accompanied it.

He ignored both feelings. This would be for the best; Loki needed to walk again, if he was to feel more like himself.

And if all went well, the gift would start to bring Loki out of whatever madness made him run from Odin. It would serve as a reminder that Odin was not to be feared, but that Odin _cared_. That Odin loved him, and wanted him healed.

Odin did not see how Loki could twist that around in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, there probably won't be too many chapters exclusively from Odin's POV or exclusively from Loki's POV. They'll have to share the narrative :o


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't quite get this chapter finished before the semester started, but I was close! This chapter grew to be a whole lot longer than I expected, and also unfortunately includes less material than I had planned, so I had to break my original plan for this chapter into two. I'm trying to keep these chapters at relatively the same length, so if the pacing's a bit off, it's because I don't want to have a twenty-page-long chapter followed by one that's about eight pages.

Loki was getting better at determining how long the fog lasted. He could tell when hours passed in its heavy weight, and when he had only slipped in for a few minutes.

For example, when he woke to discover the Einherjar hadn't slain him after all, Loki knew he had been lost in the soft, welcoming grey for several hours.

He also knew Mother and Father were gone.

It was a relief. It was a reprieve from the pain he couldn't bury when they were around.

It hurt, because they had left him. Because he was too much of a burden for them to look after.

 

* * *

 

Loki was getting better at telling the time. He could tell that when his stomach began to murmur discontentedly it must be close to a meal, and he could discern the angle and warmth of the light coming in through the windows to judge the time of day.

For example, he knew it was perhaps mid-afternoon when a third Healer joined him in his sitting room. She and the other two Healers began examining the bottom of Loki's right leg – the one that didn't work. Loki lay on the couch and watched as their hands hovered just above his flesh, lit with the glow of s _eiðr_ , and they occasionally writing things down as they murmured to each other. They took great care not to touch him, which meant Loki must have finally gotten the message across.

Or someone had told them what he was. And they stayed back out of fear of what his skin might do to them. Or out of disgust.

Although they didn't _look_ at him with disgust. When they did catch Loki's eye, their eyes were soft, and Loki didn't think they would treat him so kindly if they knew. More likely than not, they wouldn't wish to even be in the same room as him, whether Mother and Father ordered them to or not.

Loki decided they, in fact, didn't know.

He wondered if he should tell them, or if he should keep it a secret like Mother and Father had all these years. Like Mother and Father probably still wanted, else they would have told the Healers by now.

Yet couldn't they see the cruelty in allowing the Healers to believe they served a prince instead of a monster? Couldn't they see how _degrading_ it would be when they knew the truth?

Loki had thought he found the perfect solution to the problem. On the throne, Gungnir in hand and mind turning it over and over, it had _seemed_ perfect. But he had been wrong, of course. Father had shown him that well enough. And with the fog in his mind and the sluggishness in his limbs, Loki did not know how to _fix_ it.

Maybe he wasn't meant to fix things. He'd only make them worse. Like always.

( _Always wrong, wrong, wrong._ )

No one told him whether there was some way to fix this or not. They didn't even tell him what he was still doing here, even though he was never left alone. The Healers in the blue robes came and went, four faces in total that he could see, and always one or two remained with him. Sometimes they did try to speak to him, leaning in close and speaking slowly, but Loki found it too much effort to catch every word. Soon enough, they would give up and leave him to himself.

Maybe they _were_ trying to tell him what he was here for, but Loki didn't understand, and they decided their efforts wasted.

( _Because he was useless. Pointless_.)

 

* * *

 

Loki may not have understood _all_ the Healers' words, but he was getting better at listening.

For example, once night had closed over his rooms and the fire was lit as he sat propped against the pillows on his bed, he overheard the Healers saying they wished to bathe him.

Loki panicked. They would take him into the bath, _touch_ him, when no Æsir would wish to touch a Jotun like that unless it was to wrap their hands around its neck. _Touch_ him, run their hands over him as if he couldn't feel it, treat him like a _thing_ –

(A _thing_ , which he was. Or worse than a _thing_ , because _things_ didn't lash out and hurt and destroy and disappoint.)

It would have been easier to let the fog take him while they bathed him, so he could pretend he didn't know it was happening, but that would be cowardly. And Loki knew he couldn't yet wash himself. His limbs were still too heavy and slow, and even if they weren't, he would lose track in the middle, perhaps slip into the fog accidentally.

Loki still remained undecided on what to do by the time the Healers coaxed him into the mobile chair and pushed him to his bathing room. When they reached out to carry him into the bath, Loki curled away, shaking his head and refusing to allow them close. There was a hint of exasperation in the look they shared, and Loki could not help the guilt that burned low in his belly.

He knew he should let them do as they wished. He shouldn't make their lives any more difficult, considering they had to look after _him_ all day. It was selfish of him to stop them.

Except wasn't it equally selfish to take the easy route, and let them touch him when they shouldn't?

He wondered if they would get Mother, like they had last night. A part of him hoped they would, while the other part loathed himself for that desire.

Mother didn't come, though. And Loki eventually conceded to letting the Healers lower him into the tub, but only where their hands were protected by Loki's pants and shirts.

Once he was seated in the empty tub, fully-clothed, they then insisted on moving his right leg up into some sort of contraption hovering above the bath.

_“Injured,”_ he heard one Healer say, her pale hair pulled into a sharp bun.

_“Bifrost,”_ murmured the other, a sad look in her dark eyes.

And Loki remembered–

–His leg stuck, pulling, _ripping_ –

–Father's arms around him, holding him back when he had been so _close_ , except _it wasn't what Father wanted_ –

Loki fell back into the fog.

He didn't come up again until he was in bed, hair curling about his face like it had recently been dried. His body felt clean, washed. Yet his skin itched and crawled, and he wanted to claw it all off.

(But what did it matter, if he was a _thing_? What did it matter, if he was a beast, if he was lead about and fed and watered down like one?)

He felt like a coward for leaving, even if he hadn't meant to.

Although he already he knew he was a coward, didn't he? Father knew it, and Mother knew it, and who knew who else it too.

As Loki curled up into a ball beneath heavy blankets, he wondered if Mother and Father would come see him. Or if they wanted to. He remembered, vaguely, that they came when he was in bed like this. There had been Mother's voice and hands just past the fog, and sometimes Father's voice too.

But Mother and Father didn't come. There was only the Healer sitting unobtrusively in the corner, reading.

Briefly, Loki wondered if Thor would come at all. Loki couldn't recalled him from beneath the fog. Maybe he was still down on Midgard, though Loki highly doubted Father wouldn't have brought him back yet.

More likely, Mother and Father had told him what Loki really was. He must have decided Loki was no longer his brother. He must have decided Loki had _never_ been his brother.

As Thor should have.

Loki curled up tighter, feeling hollow inside. If anyone came, they came after he fell asleep.

His dreams were full of darkness and fog, of and cold and fear, and of Father's face etched in permanent disappointment.

He woke up crying. Silently though, so the Healer in the corner wouldn't notice.

No else one came that morning, just a Healer who switched with the one in his room. There was always a Healer in the same room as him.

(Treated not just like a _thing_ , but like a _thing_ that couldn't be trusted.)

(Because he _was_ a thing, and he _couldn't_ be trusted.)

 

* * *

 

Odin stared in confusion as men and women in identical black and white uniforms carried boxes from their vehicle to the little house, their shadows long in Midgard's early morning light. Thor himself toted a box, while the woman who had given him shelter flitted about like a hummingbird as she directed the uniformed mortals to and fro.

The same uniformed mortals who Odin recalled Seeing in the Odinsleep as Thor tried and failed to lift Mjolnir. Then, the mortals had imprisoned and threatened him, but now they let Thor slip by to grab another box with nary a second glance.

Tapping fingers on the wing of the Hliðskjálf, Odin pondered what exactly he had missed in the past few days. Since he had altered his decree on Thor's punishment four days ago, Odin had spent less and less time watching over his son – partially only because he barely had a moment to sit on the Hliðskjálf and let his Sight wander. But he also thought Thor deserved his privacy, and the freedom to make his own choices.

If Odin spent all his time watching, he didn't know if he could resist nudging Thor along, and ruin the whole purpose of the banishment. This was a task he had meant for Thor alone.

Although that didn't stop Odin from the occasional glance, when he could manage it. Up until two days ago, he had caught glimpses of Thor and the three mortals swapping stories with Sif the Warriors Three, who had stayed long past telling Thor of Odin's new decree. The four of them had only returned at nightfall two days ago; Odin supposed he should have expected as much, seeing as he hadn't specified when they should return. Once Thor's friends had left, Odin had caught little but Thor talking with the mortals that sheltered him and helping them with small chores.

But chores were hardly enough to make man worthy, else the countless responsibilities and punishments Odin had dealt out to his sons over the years would have circumvented this whole mess.

Odin let his gaze linger, tracing Thor's steps as the mortal woman led him inside. It was not long after the mid-day meal here, for all it looked as if the sun had just risen on Midgard, and the doors had not yet opened to the petitioners he would be hearing out today. If he had just a few moments, Odin would snatch them – perhaps, later, even look in on Loki. The Healers had yet to say whether or not Odin should visit Loki again, possibly because Odin had yet to ask them. But if they so much as _suggested_ the king might be better off staying away from his son, then the Hliðskjálf would be Odin's only–

“Allfather,” said one of the Einherjar, and Odin stifled a sigh as he returned his eye to the throne room.

“Yes?” he asked.

Without inflection, the Einherjar said, “The Dwarf Smith Sindrig is here to speak with you.”

Odin almost bolted upright, and strove not to look overeager as he ordered in Sindrig. The Dwarf took her time ambling up to the throne, and did her same almost-but-not-quite respectful bow as yesterday, despite the side-long glances from a couple of the younger Einherjar. Odin let it pass, because if he spent his days attempting to get the Dwarfs to dignify all of Asgard's customs, Odin would die with his duty unfulfilled.

“Smith Sindrig, have you news for me?” Odin spoke each word with careful stateliness, doing his best not to seem a schoolboy on the edge of his seat with excitement.

“Aye,” Sindrig replied, “the piece you proposed is ready and awaiting delivery.”

Odin couldn't stop from raising his eyebrows. “ _Already?_ ” It couldn't have been much longer than a day since Odin and Frigga had agreed to the design – Frigga granting that Odin's idea was not as horrible as she had feared.

Sindrig shrugged. “'Tis but a prototype. But you and the Queen wished it ready as soon as possible, so it will have to do. We'll upgrade it as we go along, though – we couldn't let Asgard's royalty think we would leave our work shabby.”

And the Dwarfs couldn't let off with just one commission, not when they would probably ask for more gold in return for each upgrade. But if the work was worth it, Odin would pay. “Thank-you, Smith Sindrig, and thanks to your Guild for the swift work,” he commended. “I would ask that you deliver the prototype to Healer Eir, and she will assure it is taken care of. For payment, speak to our masters of coin.”

No doubt the Dwarfs would try to bargain for more, but the speed might be worth the cost alone – Odin had expected a week at least for the Dwarfs to finish. A week of Loki aware, but unable to walk, forced to either crawl or let the Healers push and carry him about. A week of Loki humiliated by his injury, if he could even understand that it occurred in his state.

(A week of Odin trying to bury his twinned shame and guilt.)

But for the first time since the Bifrost, Loki would walk again.

The clatter of footsteps drew Odin from his thoughts, and before he could dismiss Sindrig, a messenger appeared on top of the stairs. He hurried down to kneel at the foot of the throne and said breathlessly, “Allfather, the petitioners are waiting outside, and I have an urgent message from Lord Forseti.”

“Give it here,” Odin ordered. As the messenger obeyed, taking the letter from his pouch and passing it the Einherjar, Odin turned to the Dwarf and said, “You may take your leave now, Smith Sindrig.”

She did as bade, leisurely making her way back through the throne room, as an Einherjar handed Odin the letter. Leaning back in the throne, Odin flipped it open.

And bit back a curse.

Of all damned news he could have received, of all the damned times–

He wondered if Sindrig knew, at all. He would have to take care, with her and her guild.

Shoving the note into his belt, Odin told the messenger, “Have the the petitioners sent in, and inform Lord Forseti I will speak to him after they are through.”

Odin could already guess it would be long day – he doubted he would even have time to watch from the Hliðskjálf as Loki walked once more.

And now it seemed that the Dwarfs decided they too were concerned about who had turned the Bifrost on Jotunheim, and why.

 

* * *

 

When Mother came in, late in the afternoon and trailed by the same older Healer from yesterday, Loki thought he was dreaming at first.

He had already figured out that Mother had never left him alone for more than a few hours when he had been in the fog, yet it had been more than a day and he hadn't seen her, or heard her voice, or felt her hand in his hair.

It seemed reasonable that, like Thor, she had decided to stay away.

(As she should have.)

But she came straight in through the doors to his rooms, and without hesitation sat down next to his curled legs on his couch.

Loki wanted to cry with relief. Loki wanted to tell her leave now, before he hurt her any further.

The weaker side of him won out, because when Mother reached out toward his hand, he yearned to lean into her touch. But she drew back sharply, her hand dangling in the air just as Loki had left it yesterday. After a moment, she settled it back down in her lap, smoothing down her dress. Instead of reaching for him again, she just smiled at him – the same sad smile as before.  
It seemed she had taken Loki's refusal yesterday to heart.

Some dirty, cowardly part of Loki wished she hadn't.

Then the older Healer started talking. She tapped on the couch near Loki's head, drawing his attention, and crouched down so she was near eye-level with him. That was when Loki realized she was carrying two large wooden boxes in her arms, and that the other Healer who had stayed with him through lunch – this one with straight black hair like Sif's – had disappeared.

The older Healer gestured to the first box, its top carved with a Healer's sigil, and said something about his Healers choosing these for him, and something about his leg.

His leg, like the one that didn't work. The one that didn't support his weight, that the Healers had surrounded with a cushion of air, that they checked over every morning. The one that always looked a shade off, the one that had a strange lightness to it.

The one that had been caught in the Bifrost.

Loki knew enough of the Bifrost's properties, to understand that it was strangely light because it wasn't all there. That it looked wrong, because it _was_ wrong.

He should have known the moment his limb had caught in the Bifrost's light, when Father had dragged him back and–

Loki shuddered, and tried to clamp down on the memory before he could fall back into the fog like last night. Desperately, he flung his attention back on the Healer just as she drew something out of the first box: a pair of short sticks made of lacquered black wood.

The Healer held each stick in one hand and brushed a finger over the top, igniting a glowing rune, and the sticks expanded in a flash of silver light, one end stretching for the ground and the other reaching upward. The upper end sprouted two branches, one like a sword-grip, and one that curved into a half-circle.

_“Crutches, from our stores”_ she explained, showing him how they could be expanded and diminished again by touching the rune, so when not in use, they would not get in the way.

(So Loki would not get in the way.)

Loki thought it would be easier just to banish them away like he did his knives, if he wished to take up as little space as possible. Neither did he see much point in using them; he couldn't recall ever seeing a warrior go about with crutches – either they lost the leg and replaced it, or they were well enough to walk by the time they left the healing chambers.

Though Loki supposed he could hardly be called a warrior. It would shame Asgard to place himself among their ranks anyway.

Her demonstration over, the Healer set the crutches down against the couch. She put the first box aside, and brought up the second. This one was larger, and with a sigil quite unfamiliar to Loki stamped on its topped. The Healer opened it up and drew out a long, spindly gold contraption with a circular band at the far end, and several little curving protrusions at the other.

_“A brace, for your leg”_ the Healer said.

Mother said, _“From your father. A gift,”_ and Loki looked around at her in shock. Why would Father–

But Loki well remembered the shame on Father's face. _Of course_ Father would assure Loki could stand upright, better than he could with the crutches. He couldn't allow Loki to embarrass him any further by crawling on the ground like a worm, especially if Father still had some sort of use for him.

It would explain why Father had been as absent as Mother – he couldn't bear to watch Loki in such a disgraceful state (or at least a more disgraceful state than normal). Maybe, once Loki could stand, Father might come see him again.

The thought immediately filled Loki dread and terrible, hopeful desperation. They churned in his stomach, until Loki wanted to be sick.

He wasn't, though, because he noticed the Healer saying something. Yet before he could sort through her words, she was looming over him, the gold contraption in her hands. With an expression on her face like she was steeling herself for something unpleasant, one of her hands reached down for Loki's bared right leg.

Loki instinctively recoiled, fetching up against the back of the couch as he drew his leg closer to his chest. And as his mind pieced together her expression and the way she had spoken – perhaps not to a slow child, but to a creature that was incapable of understanding – he wondered if _she_ , unlike the younger Healers, knew what he was.

_“What do you mean, what you are?”_ the Healer asked, unsure, her hand paused above his leg, and Loki realized her must have said that last part out loud.

Abruptly Mother stood. Putting a hand on the Healer's shoulder, she plucked the gold contraption from the Healer's hands with the other she. _“Healer_ _ _Gná, why don't you fetch Healers Lis and Haldis?__ _I can do the rest for him,”_ Mother said firmly.

The Healer – Gná, Mother had said – frowned, but bowed her head and left. As soon as the door closed behind her, Mother sat back down next to Loki. Her back was rigid and she stared at the closed door, unmoving, her hands clamped tight around the contraption in her hands. She sat still long enough that Loki grew worried.

(He'd done something when he spoke, injured her somehow – was it because now Healer Gná would guess what he was? Because Mother had to send her away?)

He was trying to figure out how he had managed to speak so he could ask what was wrong, when Mother heaved a sighed, her body seeming to uncoil as she let her breath out. At last, she turned to him, her sad smile in place. One of her hands jerked towards him as if she planned to hold him, but she quickly settled it back on top of the golden brace. Like Healer Gná, she brought the brace over his leg.

“ _ _I'll be careful not to touch,__ ” Mother said softly, her eyes matching her tone. And both filled with grief.

She was _hurting_. Hurting just as much as him when he refused her embrace.

As Mother slid one of contraption's band onto to his leg, Loki reached across the distance, placed his hand atop her's, and squeezed. Like she had done to him so many times when she tried to comfort him.

Mother's head shot up, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Then she broke into a radiant smile, and Loki hoped he had done the right thing.

If Mother willingly bore his touch, if she __wanted__ to touch him, then maybe he could let her. After all, Mother would have been the only one to truly mourn him, if he had succeeded. She would have been the only one to have objected, not on the grounds of his cowardice, but because despite what he was, she was kind enough to treat him like her son.

When the smile abruptly vanished from Mother's face, replaced by a look of horror, Loki feared he had accidentally said that out loud as well.

“ _ _Loki–__ ” Mother choked out, and stopped there, throat working and face paling. She frantically shook her head. “ _ _Loki,_ _ __my child, no. That's not–__ ”

There was the creak of the door opening, and Mother's head snapped around. Something flashed across her face, something like anger. But Loki only saw Healer Gná re-entering followed by two Healers, the one with bouncy blonde hair and the shorter brunette – Haldis and Lis, Mother had called them.

Not knowing what else to do, Loki squeezed Mother's hand again. She turned back to him, face still horror-stricken and eyes flickering down to their joined hands.

Loki felt his heart drop. Quickly, he removed his hand, beginning to withdraw it back to his chest.

Just as quickly, Mother's face smoothed over. She caught his retreating hand, giving it a squeeze back, and as the three Healers came over Mother returned to affixing the brace to his leg.

But underneath the placidity, Loki could see her in pain; it was in the crease on her brow, the tightness to her jaw, the press of her lips. It made Loki sick to look at.

He couldn't stop from hurting Mother, even if he hadn't meant to say those words out loud. Even if they were the truth – a truth that should never have been voiced. Mother, with her gentle heart and her belief in the kindness of her people, would never think Loki so loathed. Maybe she loved him enough that she couldn't believe others did not hold him in the same regard.

And if Loki disagreed with her assessment, he would only hurt her more.

Loki was so caught up in his thoughts, that it took him a moment to realize Mother was no longer beside him, but standing. He blinked up at her, wondering why she had risen, until he became aware of a weight attached to his calf. She had finished putting the brace on him without him noticing.

It felt...odd.

He looked down.

It looked as odd as it felt.

The gold band at the top wrapped around the middle of his calf, just above the damage. The oddly-warm metal fit snugly, neither slipping nor cutting off his circulation, like it had molded itself to his skin and fastened itself there. From the back of the band, a long strip of metal curved down his leg, just above his skin, before hooking beneath his heel. It ended with a smooth half-circle at the arch of his foot, the metal bare millimetres away from his skin.

There was a similar strip at the front of his leg, following its way down to his foot. Once it reached the centre of his foot, it arched out into five bands; two spread out to the sides at the arch of his foot, curving just in front of the strip from his heel; two more branched out just before his toes and curled underneath the ball of his foot. The last band continued on from the centre strip, splitting apart and curving underneath his toes. None of the bands beneath his foot met, leaving most of his foot uncovered to the air.

As Loki wiggled his toes, examining the faint sheen of gold he could see through his translucent skin, Loki thought it looked like a very oddly-shaped scorpion had settled on top of his foot.

He was still wiggling his toes when the three Healers appeared in his vision, the younger ones flanking the older one. Mother moved to the side to allow them room, and Loki looked between her and the Healers, confused. As Mother nodded encouragingly, though still with that tightness to her jaw and press to her lips that meant she was trying to hide how much Loki had hurt her, Healer Gná crouched down and began examining his leg.

Loki let her, lifting up his leg and twisting it when she gestured. She must have found it satisfactory, for she soon straightened, and walked over to far side of his room, beckoning Mother to come with her.

Loki craned his neck over the couch to watch them retreat to the corner, Healer _Gná murmuring in Mother's ear_ , except the two younger Healers blocked his sight. They began urging him up with gestures and distant words. One of the blonde's hands fluttered close to his, as if to help him to his feet, and Loki hurriedly snatched it away. She withdrew hers with as much haste, but Loki decided to stand before another hand could get close.

Using the couch's arm for balance, he hauled himself upward, but only putting weight on his left leg. He could feel himself swaying as slight tremors running through his leg.

Briefly, he wondered how long it had been since he had truly stood.

How long had he been in the fog? How long had he been a more useless burden than normal to Father and Mother and Thor?

No one answered, or indicated they heard anything, so Loki must not have asked that out loud.

All the Healers were looking at him expectantly, and in the corner next to one of Loki's bookshelves, Mother eyes gleamed with an anticipation that nearly erased her sorrow.

Carefully, Loki set his right foot down.

Standing on the thing was even stranger. There was no weight settled against the bottom of his leg, just a cushion of air surrounding the skin. Instead the press of the floor was taken by his gold band and his calf. Then there was the slight height difference, where the gold strips added just enough space to make him feel lopsided and off-balance.

But he could stand, which was what Father wanted. He no longer had crawl on hands and knees and belly, but stood as straight as any Ás.

Loki looked at Mother. She was beaming at him, though her eyes shone with the tears she had refused to shed when Loki spoke.

Guilt spiked in Loki's stomach, and he looked away.

As soon as Loki felt stable enough to stand without the couch's aid, the Healers had him walk around his sitting room. They flanked him as he walked, not complaining at Loki's slow pace as they went in wide circles around the room, looping around his armchair and desk, threading between one of his cluttered worktables and a bookcase. Mother remained out of the way with Healer Gná, watching him, sometimes turning to consult with Healer Gná. Her face seemed normal once again, no more tears or odd strain to her features, and Loki felt relieved.

After a round or two or the room, the Healers flanking Loki began talking.

It took a loop around the furniture for Loki realize they were talking to him. It took another loop before he understood they were patiently repeating the same question over and over.

_“Does anything hurt?”_

Loki stopped, considering the question. It was awkward limping about with one foot slightly farther off the ground than the other. The balance was strange too, with the protrusions not quite flat on the ground, yet still quite steady. It wasn't painful, though, not like the way his clothes had scraped his skin those few days ago when he escaped from the bath, or when he'd knocked his leg against the ground.

No, nothing hurt, he decided, and kept walking.

And stopped again, belatedly remembering he should tell the Healers his verdict. He shook his head just as the brunette one opened her mouth to repeat the question. Then he glanced over at Mother to see if she was waiting for the answer as well, and she gave him a relieved smiled _._

Except her smile looked off. The unsettled look had returned, creasing her eyes and slipping into the turn of her mouth as one of her hands fidgeting with the other.

Loki abruptly faced forward and started walking again, hot sickness flooding him.

_(_ __It was his fault, all his fault for not having a better hold on his tongue –_ _ __Silvertongue_ _ __**indeed** _ _ __– but what if she thought he had said it on purpose, that he had been_ _ __**trying** _ _ __to hurt her–_ _ _)_

The Healers began talking again, and Loki focused on their voices as he tramped around the room.

_“Is your foot touching the floor?”_

Loki quickly decided this was a 'no' too. He didn't even need to check – all he felt against his skin on his leg was a slight cushion of air, and nothing more.

He didn't look at Mother this time, and the Healers started on another question.

_“Does it fit?”_

This one was a nod. Loki had lost count of his laps around his room, but the band around his leg had yet to slip. It didn't pinch at his skin either, which he supposed meant there was something more than gold and metal woven into the band, to keep it supple but firm.

The Healers didn't ask any more, and they only took one more loop before steering him back to the couch. They wanted him to try the crutches, but to do that he had to take off the brace first. Mother came over and helped him, showing him twice how to disengage the golden band from about his leg, pressing a rune like with the crutches and splitting the brace into two.

Loki did his best to watch without actually looking at Mother. Though she hid it well behind a smile and gentle touches, Loki could still see her hurt.

The crutches, when he slipped his arms into them, were awkward to manoeuvre with, and he had to be careful in tight spaces like between his worktable and the bookcase. But he found he could make it across the room much faster, and the band below his elbow fit as snugly as the one about his leg had.

Although Loki didn't see why he needed both these and the brace. It wasn't as if he would be going anywhere outside of his rooms.

(Unless Father had need of him, some plan where Loki could be useful.)

As Loki walked, the Healers began asking him questions again.

_“Does it hurt?”_

_No._ A shake of his head.

_“Is it comfortable?”_

_Well enough._ A nod.

_“Do you–“_

There was a knock at the door, and the blonde Healer stopped mid-question as Loki jerked mid-swing, nearly toppling over until he caught his balance against the wall.

_Father_ , he thought, _it's Father come to check on me, come to see me walk again–_

His stomach swooped, nausea flipping his stomach upside down as a flurry of emotions filled him up. He wanted to hide, or maybe he wanted to rush forward and show Father he no longer crawled like an animal – except that was too much like a toddler showing off its first steps, no great feat for a grown man.

Even Jotnar could walk upright.

But as Mother opened the door a sliver, Loki caught the neatly-tailored white of a page-boy uniform. It was only a moment before Mother nodded and closed the door. She hurried over to Loki and put a hand on his shoulder.

_“I have to go,”_ she apologized. Before she turned back to the door, she gently squeezed his shoulder, then smoothed back his hair, tucking it behind his ears.

The touch made him warm inside, just as much as it made him sick.

Loki he knew he'd hurt her eventually. Just as always, everything Loki touched turned to ash. Even when he'd been trying to make it better, so she'd stop hurting.

Ever time he tried to do good, he only made it worse.

But a monster could hardly do good, could it?

Loki watched as the door closed behind Mother, and went back to walking.

 

* * *

 

“This was meant to help Loki get _better_ ,” Odin snarled to himself as he paced across the sitting room. “After everything else today...”  
“What?” Frigga asked, alarmed. Her cup of tea paused halfway to her lips and her eyes followed his movements. “What else happened today?”  
Odin growled, “It's the Dwarfs. Their ambassadors have joined the rest of the lot. Apparently some of their merchants have been ignoring my trade embargo and trading with Jotunheim since the war's end. Forseti believes they're the ones influencing the ambassadors' decisions.”

Although Odin could take them to task for disobeying his orders, it would probably go no further than the individual traders; Dwarven rule worked differently than Asgard's, allowing the merchants more freedom in their wares and travels – just as it allowed Sindrig and her guild to work for Asgard's crown even as the ambassadors opposed it.

“If the merchants are angry enough, they might even bring the king into this,” Odin finished off. This whole business was damned, from start to finish. If only Loki hadn't–

If only Loki hadn't done a lot of things. If only Thor hadn't gone to Jotunheim, if only Odin and Frigga had done things differently...they might as well wish for the Norns to turn back the days.  
“What have the ambassadors said?” Frigga asked calmly, though her voice was no less firm. “If need be I can talk to the Vanir one – if not you, he can at least trust their Queen's sister.” At that, Odin knew Frigga must be truly determined if she made that offer – not only because she would use her connection to her birth realm as leverage, but because she no more approved of Loki's actions against Jotunheim than Odin did.

Odin, however, not reply. After a moment, Frigga asked slowly, “You _have_ spoken to them, haven't you?”  
“I...” Odin stopped his pacing, and ran a hand over his face as he closed his eyes. “I haven't had the time.”  
He had meant to schedule the meeting for today, but with the rest of the work he had to catch up on, he hadn't even sent out a request to talk. After meeting with Forseti, the errant trade agreement had finally been handed a Vanir ambassador – one rather unconcerned about Jotunheim and his associate's worries – barely an hour before the deadline he had given the man. By the time he finally spoke to Yngvi and steward, he'd needed rush into a meeting with a few visiting nobles who were leaving tomorrow. He'd barely been able to spare these few minutes before the evening feast so Frigga might tell him of how Loki accepted his gift.

At this rate, it would look like Odin was avoiding the ambassadors.

Which may have been partially true, and probably for the exact reasons they imagined.  
Frigga must have seen something on his face, for she didn't press the issue. Her lips thinned however, and she looked distinctly displeased.

Odin sighed and resumed in his pacing, this time at a much slower gait. “What were Loki's exact words?” he asked tiredly, wishing they did not have to talk about this. If anything, he should have been overjoyed that Loki had begun speaking again, not...wearied. To put off the inevitable, Odin asked, “You said he spoke to the Healer first?”

“Yes, though I would not say he spoke _to_ her, exactly.” Frigga's gaze was distant, tea cup forgotten in her hand. “He was looking at her at the time, but I'm not sure he even realized he was speaking. When Healer Gná prepared to put on his brace, he only mumbled that he wondered if she knew what he was, like he was speaking a thought out loud.”

That was...not exactly worrying, but at least cause for concern. If Loki accidentally said something better left secret, in front of the wrong people, it might end up in a disaster.

Although if Loki began blurting his thoughts out loud, would Odin finally understand whatever went on his head?

Odin pushed aside that unworthy thought – he should hope Loki improved, not stagnated so that Odin could take advantage of his weakness. His pacing sped up, and it felt like he was wearing grooves in the floor from the window at one end of the room to the couch at the other. Bracing himself, hands clenched behind his back, he asked, “And to you, Loki said he believed that I did not care about his actions in the Bifrost?”

All these days later, it still hurt to know how deep Loki's delusions ran, and how it remained unchanged. But hadn't Odin heard something like it already, even before the Bifrost? As he slipped into the Odinsleep, there had been Loki, crouching over him and snarling, _“No matter how much you_ _ **claim**_ _to_ _ **love me**_ _, you could never have a frost giant sitting on the throne of Asgard.”_

Was that what Loki truly thought, even before the revelation of his heritage? That Odin only _claimed_ to love him?

For _how long?_ How far back did Odin have to go to rout out this madness?

Frigga let out a noise that wasn't quite a sigh, nor quite a hitch in her breath, and Odin looked over at her. Sorrow deepened the lines of her face, and she put her tea cup on her table before leaning down, elbows on her knees, and said, “Not entirely. When Loki reached out to me, he...” A faint smile inched over her face, one not nearly as joyful as it should be, considering that Loki had touched her, after such adamant refusal yesterday. “He reached out and squeezed my hand, as if _I_ was in need of comfort.” She let out a little snort that sounded half a sob. “And then he–”

Frigga's smile twisted, her eyes glistening in the firelight, and where her hands clasped before her, they shook. “He said that I would have been the only one to truly mourn him, because that despite what he was, I always treated him like a son.”

Her voice was hardly above a whisper, but she might have screamed it for the way Odin quailed.

__The only one to mourn_ _ _–_ __that_ _ __**Frigga** _ _ __treated him like a son_ _ _–_

Then what did he think Odin treated him as? What did he think Odin felt towards him?

_(“_ __No matter how much you_ _ __**claim** _ _ __to_ _ __**love me** _ _ __–”_ _ _)_

Furiously, Odin near-enough stomped his way across the floor in his pacing. How in the Nine had Loki convinced himself–

“That's not all, Odin.” Frigga's quiet, shaking voice cut across Odin's thoughts. “He believed that I would be the only one who might protest his...what he tried to do to himself in the Bifrost.”

Odin stopped and stared at her. “The _only_ one? Those were his _exact_ words?” As if no one else would care that Loki had marched off to die–

Frigga nodded, barely holding back tears.

Odin no longer felt like standing. Either that, or he had to take up his spear and ride into battle, letting bloodlust fill his senses until he was no longer Odin-Allfather, but Odin War Father, like in the days of old.

But rushing off to war wasn't going to help Loki. He couldn't stab Loki's delusions through with his spear or strangle them until they breathed their last and Loki finally saw the truth.

Odin dropped down into the armchair next to Frigga's. He buried his head in his hands, blocking out most of the bright evening light, the rest seeping through as blood-red lines between his fingers. Like blood running down his hands.

“Where did I go so wrong with him?” he breathed. Loki's words on the Bifrost should have prepared him for this, when he happily told Odin that he and Jotunheim would both be destroyed. But there was a difference between believing Odin wished for Loki's demise, and believing all of Asgard did not care.

There was a _chasm_ between believing Odin wanted Loki dead, and believing Frigga the _only_ one to protest – to _mourn_.

“Odin...” Frigga said, so softly it might have been a sigh.

“Do you think this may only be his madness speaking?” Odin blurted out, raising his head to regard his wife. “Or does he truly believe this – this fantasy of his?”

Frigga glanced to the side. “I cannot say why Loki believes what he does,” she answered after a long pause, “only that he thinks he has good reasons for it.” And that sent shivers down Odin's spine, but Frigga wasn't done. Meeting Odin's gaze, she said, “I think we've all made mistakes–”

Odin couldn't help letting out a harsh laugh. “Apparently not _you_ though, if he knows _you_ love him–”

“If I hadn't made any mistakes, then _Loki wouldn't have done any of this!_ ” Frigga shouted, her back snapping up straight as her face was overcome by rage and grief. “If I hadn't made any mistakes, I wouldn't have put him on _that throne_ and left him unchecked while he was _suffering_.”

She stared at Odin, breathing heavily, her gasps on the edge of sobs, and her eyes wide as if she was as surprised of her outburst as Odin. Gaining control of her breathing, she said, “I'm sorry, I–”

Odin reached over and clasped her arm. “No, I shouldn't have said...” What, accused her of being a perfect mother? Accused her of doing no wrong?

But if none of them had done any wrong, if their whole family was perfect, none of this would have happened. That would hardly be a relief to her, though.

(It wasn't to Odin.)

“You couldn't have known Loki would go so far,” he settled on.

Frigga didn't respond. She raised her hand to where Odin still held her arm and lay her's on top, gently stroking her thumb along the back of his hand. Her gaze was unfocused, settling somewhere above her cooling tea.

“I think...” Frigga said at last, and turned to look at Odin, her eyes fever-bright and lit with a resolve that Odin knew intimately. “Odin, I think it's time we told Thor of this. It's not _right_ to leave him in the dark for so long, and if we bring him back and show Loki he still has his family's love...then Loki will _know_ that Thor loves him, no matter who he was born to.”

Odin wished he could share her conviction. Yet just as chores did not make a man worthy, they would hardly help Thor accept that his brother was part of the race he had attacked in defiance of both the law and Odin's command.

He shook his head. “Thor still isn't ready–”

“But he has been progressing,” Frigga interrupted, steel in her eyes. “He can continue to learn _here_ what he has started to learn on Midgard.”

“What do you mean, progressing?” Odin asked. How could Frigga know more than he did about Thor? He didn't think she had been down to visit Heimdall, though perhaps now that she no longer spent all her free hours with Loki, she had taken to looking after her other son.

Frigga moved so she facing Odin, leaning over her armrest. “I spoke to Sif, Hogun, Volstagg, and Fandral this morning,” she said. “I had meant to speak to them yesterday during the morning meal, after their return, but with Loki...” She trailed, but Odin caught her meaning. Between Loki waking from his stupor, and needing to speak the Dwarfs, she must have put it off.

It seemed neither of them truly had the time these days.

Clearing her throat, Frigga continued, “They took so long to return from Midgard because Thor had a task for them. A group of mortals had stolen items of value from the young woman housing Thor.”

“And so he tasked his friends to help him rescue it,” Odin surmised. That would explain the uniformed mortals with the boxes if Thor's friends had challenged them and won, charging them to return the purloined goods. Still, Odin did not see how this proved Thor had changed – it was not so different from the deeds his sons and their friends had done in the past.

Frigga's lips quirked up in an expression that wasn't quite a smile. “Yes, they rescued her belongings, but probably not the way you're thinking. This certain group of mortals has quite a bit of power in their realm. And so Thor told them that they would be better off negotiating with them, rather than fighting.”

Odin raised his eyebrows, caught off guard. Frigga gave something much closer to a smile at his expression, and said, “The four of them accompanied Thor and the woman to where the offending party set up camp. Eventually they persuaded the mortals to release the young woman belongings, once they convinced the mortals that Thor was truly a prince and that he and his friends came from Asgard. And while Sif thinks it was the demonstration of their prowess that forced the mortals to capitulate...Odin, this _proves_ Thor is learning.” She squeezed his hands to punctuate her words. “He went to Jotunheim looking for a fight. Now he does his best to avoid one, even though his friends would have handily won against the thieves.”

Odin sat back in his chair, thinking. Frigga was right – this wasn't what he had expected, especially not so soon into Thor's banishment. And it was certainly surprising Thor had avoided force in this case, as none would chide him for using it against such unscrupulous robbers.

Maybe...Thor would return sooner than he had feared.

Almost tentatively, Odin reached out to his connection to Mjolnir, and the spell he had lain into her heart.

But the hammer had yet to yield. She remained embedded in Midgard's earth, waiting for Thor to reclaim her.

Odin's heart sank. No, Thor was still not worthy.

“Thor is learning,” Odin agreed slowly as he thought of how to phrase his answer best. Frigga arched her eyebrows, waiting for the rest, and Odin conceded. “Yet as you said with Loki, Thor needs more _time_. When he is truly ready Mjolnir will come to him, and we will _know_.”

If Thor was to return – if Thor was to help Loki, as Frigga intended, then Odin had to be _sure_. And Odin was no more sure that Thor could continue learning his lesson on Asgard as he was when he first argued with Frigga.

The look Frigga gave him was a combination of scrutiny and exasperation. She stood, keeping his hand in her grasp, and staring down at him with that same steel as before she said, “If that is what you think, then consider that Thor learned this lesson because he was _challenged_. And he rose to face it. How do you expect Thor to become worthy without something to pit himself against?” She let his hand slip from her grasp as she stepped back.

“Think on it,” she said as she began to head towards the door.

Odin watched her retreat, turning her words over in his head. He had meant Thor's banishment, his mortality, to be a lesson – that in itself a challenge to overcome.

But if there were more rigorous trials to weather, then like a whetstone sharpening a blade, Thor may improve himself all that quicker.

Still, Thor seemed to be learning well enough on his own. He sought out these challenges on his own, regaining the worthiness Odin feared had been buried under Thor's faults for far too long.

Perhaps, like with Loki waking from stupor where a month had become a day, Odin needn't even wait out the whole nine days. Perhaps tomorrow, Odin might feel the pull on Mjolnir's spell as she found her master, and he would welcome Thor home on the Bifrost by evening's light.

Except, as Odin remembered how exactly Loki woke, perhaps Thor returning would not be _enough_.

What else would Thor carry with him? How else would he have changed?

(What else would tear their family apart?)

Odin heard the smooth creak of the door as Frigga began to pull it open, shaking Odin from his morbid thoughts. And abruptly Odin remembered–

“Wait, _Frigga_ ,” he called out. He had nearly forgotten – he needed to ask before they left to the feasting hall and there were curious ears all around them.

As Odin hurried over, Frigga did as asked, giving him a questioning look as she turned to face him. With a tinge of desperation leaking into his voice, Odin asked, “Did...when you put the brace on Loki, when you said we had it commissioned for him, did he react at all?”

_Did he smile? Did he look relieved? Did he look_ _**happy** _ _?_

When Frigga stared at him sadly, Odin already knew the answer. Still, she replied, “He looked confused when I told him, though beyond that...there was nothing. I'm sorry,” she said softly, running a hand down his face. “I know you wanted this to work. But, then again...we also both know how skilled Loki has been at covering up his emotions.”

Frigga's lip trembled, and Odin knew she was remembering those days as he Slept, and she saw nothing wrong with her son.

“No, I should have realized it was too soon,” Odin sighed, although he had thought...well, it hardly mattered what he thought, when Loki had once again proven him wrong. Laying his hands on her shoulders, he asked “Do you think, tomorrow, I should try to visit him again? If he's beginning to talk, and he reached out to you...”

_If I can just speak with him–_

“I don't know,” Frigga said, leaning into him and closing her eyes. “The Healers haven't said anything, although perhaps...” She opened her eyes and gave a him tight, pained smile. Voice strained, she said, “Perhaps you best not visit him alone, just in case.”

Like Odin was dangerous, a threat to his own son.

(And wasn't he, if Loki had driven himself into the Bifrost because he thought Odin _wanted_ it?)

Odin swallowed. “Then we'll visit him together,” he amended. “We'll talk to him about what he said today. We'll assure him there's no truth to his fears.” And with Odin there to enforce the words, Loki might actually believe them. Or start to.

Odin could feel Frigga relaxing in his arms, and her smile easing into something more genuine. “I'll check with Healer Kajsa tomorrow,” she said, “and see if she thinks Loki is ready. Perhaps, if you're worried about time, we might even dine together.” Her tired eyes sparkled, and Odin nodded in agreement.

Yes, dinner sounded perfect, if Loki could manage. Except for Thor's absence, and the necessity of eating in Loki's rooms rather than their own private dining quarters, it would be like one of their family dinners; they hadn't had one of those in a long while – since months before Thor's coronation, it seemed. Odin could have the cooks make some of Loki's favourite dishes – did the Healers still have Loki on that broth? Surely Odin could convince them Loki was prepared for something more complicated.

And together the three of them would talk; or if Loki could not, then Odin and Frigga would, until their words got through to their youngest son.

Telling himself it was hope and not nerves fluttering in his stomach, Odin followed his wife out the door, hand-in-hand, to the evening's feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a horrible rough sketch of Loki's brace that I used to figure out how the damn thing should look [up on my tumblr](http://jaggedcliffs.tumblr.com/post/128350119516/this-is-my-very-very-artistic-and-sophisticated); my original idea had a lot more spindly protruding bits, like a bunch of spicules enclosing his foot. But after using [Chell's boots in the Portal series](http://www.gameinformer.com/b/news/archive/2011/04/12/learn-the-value-of-boots-in-portal-2.aspx) as a base and watching how her foot actually moved in the video, I realized those wouldn't be as functional as I thought. Loki's crutches are the [open-cuff elbow crutches here](http://www.flexyfoot.com/crutches/types-crutches/). I was going to give him normal crutches, but these are apparently better. Although don't expect a lot of real medical technicalities in this fic, because I feel like the science of it would get in the way of my plot.
> 
> Finally, good news and bad news: good news is, to my complete bafflement and surprise, I landed myself a part-time job for the next year! Bad news is, I wasn't entirely expecting to get a job, and now I'll have significantly less time to write than I had thought. Hopefully I won't go over the 3-month mark again, but just a heads up to you all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, well this took several months later than I had thought. That's mostly because I wanted this chapter to be much longer, and had another 8 or 9 pages tacked onto it; I unfortunately ended up stalling for a very long time on those pages, and then mid-term essays hit and I didn't write a word for three weeks :( However, I finally got back to this fic, finished those 8 or 9 pages, then realized this chapter would be too long if included them. But the good news is, the next chapter will come much sooner, since all have to do with those pages is edit them :)
> 
> In other news, I just saw _Crimson Peak_ a few days ago, and _I am in love_. All three of the main characters are now my babies and I must protect them. Plus, it gave me all of Tom Hiddleston's darling sad looks, which I am probably never going to get from Marvel again.

The balcony was quiet.

Loki's rooms were quiet too, but a different kind of quiet. A stifling quiet, a kind of quiet that hadn't bothered Loki when it was just him in his rooms, studying or reading or practising his magic. But with one or two Healers always in the room with him, never once leaving Loki to himself, the quiet no longer seemed so comfortable.

And the Healers wouldn't let Loki _be_ comfortable. Not for long.

Yesterday, after he had finished walking with the crutches, the Healers led him back to his couch and let him change back into the brace. Healer Gná must have left while Loki was still snapping the thing in place, for when he looked up again, only the younger Healers remained. The blonde was clutching a scroll, while the brunette had grabbed the chair from Loki's desk and was setting it down in front of him.

Loki frowned. She wasn't supposed to move his chair. No one was supposed to move __any__ of his things.

_(But they weren't a **prince's** things, were they? They were a **Jotun's** things. And any Æsir had more of a claim to them than him.) _

One of the Healers said something while Loki frowned at the errant chair. It must have been something important, for the moment the brunette sat, the Healers began poking and prodding him – or as close to poking and prodded as they could get without touching him. They shone lights in his eyes, moved more lights across his vision, and snapped fingers by his ears. They asked him things they had to repeat several times before he could listen well enough to answer – _how many fingers am I holding up, can you focus on the painting over there, can you read this?_ They ran their hands just above his body, and Loki felt their magic investigating him, probing him. Loki shrank away like it had been their fingers running over his skin.

It felt like an eternity, but eventually they finished, leaving him alone on the couch once more.

Although not for long. It was never for long.

A Healer or two would lurk in a corner just beyond Loki's vision for a time, then flit back to where he sat on his couch or armchair or bed. They would talk to him, but Loki found it difficult to listen. They seemed to want him to speak back, but Loki found it even harder to match up his words with his thoughts. They would place a book in front of him and expect him to read, but it was too much trouble to focus on the words, and Loki could only manage a sentence or two before the words blurred and he began staring into space. They would make him practice with the braces and crutches, limping about his sitting room in the same endless loop between the bookcases and the desks like an animal led through its paces.

It had continued the rest of the day yesterday, and it hadn't stopped there. It had been the same this morning, and afternoon, and Loki suspected it would the same later this evening. He would rest, and then they would swoop down on him like a flock of nosey ravens, never once leaving him _alone_. Even when he indicated he had to relieve himself, a Healer stood just inside the room, facing the door and _waiting_.

Loki hoped they had relieved him by magic when he was in the fog.

( _But he was a_ _ **thing**_ _, wasn't he? A thing to be carted about and watched._ )

( _And what should a Jotun care for modesty anyway, when those beasts ran around in underclothes, barely decent?_ )

He refused to let them bathe him again, though. He knew he couldn't force them out of his bathing chamber ( _because he was a_ _ **thing**_ _that couldn't be trusted_ ). But he _wouldn't_ fall into the fog again, and he _wouldn't_ let them bathe him.

It hardly helped, in the end. Two of the Healers came in with Loki to raise his foot above the water and clean it with magic, and all the while Loki scrubbed and rinsed as quickly as his awkward, fumbling hands would allow. When he finished he had to wait for the water to drain before he could dry himself with a spell and struggle into his brace without knocking his foot against the sides of the tub. Only then could he stand and change into his nightclothes, and though the Healers turned away, Loki could feel his skin flushing a bright red.

He tried not to think of how many night the Healers had done this all for him. But he could no more ignore that thought than he could the Healers. Even when he slept, a Healer sat silently in the corner as Loki willed himself to close his eyes and wish the fog would close over him again so he could _forget_.

It hadn't, as easy as it would be to fall – to be alone in his own little world, if not outside of it.

But the sky out here on the balcony was quiet. And here, Loki was alone.

It certainly helped that the Healers knew not to touch Loki, so the Healer in his sitting room wouldn't accidentally disrupt the simulacrum of Loki lounging on the couch; the illusion was still staring blankly at the book in front of it like Loki had done each time the Healers tried to get him to read. Once Healer decided Loki had his fill of “reading”, she would let him rest for a bit, then maybe force one more activity out of him before it was time for dinner. If she decided on “talking” or “listening”, the simulacrum could fake those well enough.

And Loki could linger on the balcony for that much longer.

Elbows propping him up against the white stone balustrade, Loki let his eyes wander over the city. The sight was the same as ever – the golden towers glittered in the sunlight, the blue mountains loomed in the distance, and the gardens far below sprouted in dots of brilliant colours.

With the rustle of the wind, the quiet murmur of the palace as afternoon turned to evening, and the perfect blue sky set against the shining stars beyond Asgard's reach, it almost felt like it was the same as any other day. Like nothing had changed.

Like everything since Thor's coronation was some terrible nightmare, and when Loki tired of the view and retreated back to his rooms, no one else would be there – except maybe Thor, laughing and asking what Loki had been brooding about on the balcony. And when Loki told him, Thor would laugh again and tell him to stop practising magic before bed, for it gave him such ridiculous nightmares. Then he would accompany Loki off to the feasting halls for dinner, and none of it would have been real. Loki wouldn't be a monster, and Father wouldn't have–

The wind picked up, swirling through his damaged leg in a strange prickling sensation that didn't feel _right_ – that _wouldn't_ be right, if everything was normal.

And the illusion of that life collapsed.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

Loki sunk down the balustrade to the stone floor, wrapping his arms around his stomach as if that could help with cold, cruel weight that had settled at the bottom of it. He thought he heard a whimper, and clamped lips shut, hoping that would stop the sound from leaking out. Leaning forward over splayed legs, he forced down the nausea and tried to breathe past the weight crushing his chest.

He wished he would stop _hurting_.

But so long as he remembered what he was, it would never stop.

Loki dropped his head and, as his body shook and shivered, tried to breathe.

He didn't know how long he had been there, silently shaking against hard stone, when he heard voices. Three of them, as if they were out on the balcony with him. The Healer's voice, Mother's voice, and–

Father's voice.

Loki looked up, alarmed, and faintly he could see Mother and Father, but set against polished wood rather than the sky–

Because the simulacrum in his rooms was seeing them.

_“Hello, Loki,”_ Mother said, smiling and leaning down over Loki's illusion while Father stood near the door with the Healer, a strange expression on his face. _“Your Father and I–”_

Mother reached for Loki's shoulder, and her hand went right through it.

Loki had time to see the look of horror on her face before his illusion dissolved, and he was back on the balcony, curled up against the railing.

And then the yelling started. It howled through the entry room, bedroom, and out to the balcony, the Healer frenzied apologies, Mother's frantic orders, and Father's voice booming like when he met Thor in shouting match.

A jolt of fear shot through Loki. He shouldn't have done this. He _never_ should have tricked the Healer and skulked out onto the balcony–

(But it was just the _balcony_. He was still technically in his rooms – no one else would see him up here, and he had just wanted to be _alone_ –)

( _But what Jotun could be allowed freedom on Asgard?_ )

Loki scrambled upwards, brace clunking and fingernails scraping against stone as he tried to haul himself to his feet. He must have made enough noise in his efforts to carry into his rooms, because the thunder of footsteps charged towards him while Loki heaved himself up. Leaning against the railing on one elbow, Loki looked over his shoulder as the curtains were violently shoved aside, revealing Mother with Father just behind her.

They both stared, shock in their eyes. Then, as one, they started shouting. _Loudly_. Their voices overlapped the other's until Loki didn't know what they were saying, their words drowned out in their fear or their anger or whatever he had done wrong to make them _shout_.

Looking between them and their wide, panicked eyes, Loki quailed, shrinking against the balustrade as if he should shrink away from the noise. Finally, there was a gap in the shouting and he caught Mother pleading, _“...inside.”_ And Father, backing away with his palms out and eye glittering strangely, said, _“..._ _ **don't**_ _jump_ _.”_

_Jump?_ Loki thought.

He stared over the railing in confusion, then startled when Father bellowed and Mother screamed. A hand wrapped around his wrist – Mother's, her soft fingers gripping hard enough to hurt– and he was being yanked inside before he could object. Loki stumbled through the doors, where Mother pulled him into his arms, babbling words in his ear that Loki only half understood and running her hands up and down his back. _“...Don't do that, Loki...not again,”_ she whispered.

Over her shoulder, Loki could see Father, his eye fixed on Loki with a furious, unreadable expression, and Loki began to shake.

He tugged backwards, and Mother let her grip slacken enough that Loki could stagger away, fetching up against the wall. Mother and Father both started towards him, but Loki cringed and they stopped.

Focusing on his tongue and lips, making sure he felt their movement just as he had occasionally managed to practise with the Healers, Loki said, _“I wasn't going to jump.”_

They needed to understand. He _needed_ to make them believe him _(but who would believe a lying frost giant, especially when it had done the same thing before?)_. As an afterthought, in case they thought he hadn't learned Father's lesson on the Bifrost, Loki added in reassurance, _“The fall probably wouldn't kill me anyway.”_

It was true – there was another balcony several stories beneath his, and even if Loki jumped far enough away to miss it, several water canals ran close enough beneath his window to catch him or at least slow his fall; and under it all, the garden had soft springy grass and willows tree with branches sturdy enough to stop him, but not kill him. He may have been weak for an Æsir ( _Jotun_ ) but he wasn't some frail Midgardian.

From the looks on their faces, that didn't seem to assuage them. Behind her shock, Mother had a mournful expression, and Father–

Father, with the wariness in his eye and doubt on his face, didn't seem to believe Loki at all.

He must think Loki had decide to repeat his cowardice – except this time, if the jump killed him, Loki would have left his broken body there for all to see as proof of his craven nature, dragging Father's name through the mud. Father must think Loki was ruining his plans again, wilfully and deliberately.

But Father already knew Loki couldn't be trusted, didn't he? It was probably under Father's command that the Healers refused to leave Loki alone. It was so _obvious_ Loki wasn't allowed out of an Æsir's sight, and now Loki had flagrantly disobeyed Father's rules.

Loki quaked. He could feel himself falling, the grey that had been absent for so long closing in, and he was too tired to fight it. Except he couldn't leave just yet.

Though it wrenched something deep inside him, Loki met Father's doubtful eye. Forcing his mouth to move, Loki asked, _“What do you_ _**want** _ _with me? What do you plan to do with me?”_

If he just _knew_ , he could do whatever it was _better_.

Father jerked back, eye wide and surprised, but he didn't answer. He stood there, silent and staring, until Loki feared that his tongue had jumbled his words into nonsense.

But then Father sputtered, _“_ _ **Nothing**_ _. There's – there's_ _ **nothing**_ _!”_

_Oh._

_Nothing._

_Of course._

The word echoed in Loki's head, bouncing around and around inside the confines of his mind until he couldn't hear anything else.

_Nothing._

He should have known.

Something in Loki broke, and without resistance, Loki fell into the fog.

 

* * *

 

It didn't last long.

When Loki emerged from the grey, he was propped up in bed. Mother and Father were nowhere to be seen, though he could hear their voices rising and falling from his entry room. They did not come any closer. Instead, one of the Healers, the one with tightly coiled black hair, appeared in his bedroom doorway carrying a bowl of soup and a cup of water.

Dutifully, Loki swallowed the soup without tasting it, and took the water.

_That_ , he could taste.

From the bitterness, Loki knew water wasn't the only thing in his glass, even before the Healer took the cup from his limp fingers and the heavy weight of sleep took him.

 

* * *

 

Loki dreamed.

He dreamed of ice and cold, of blue hands and black claws, of Asgard's golden light searing his eyes and of the Bifrost's golden-rainbow light receding from him. He dreamed of Laufey's face, grinning at him with ugly fangs bared, cackling as he wrapped a huge hand around Loki's body and asked why he thought he could ever escape.

He dreamed of Mother, her comforting hand reaching out towards him. But as soon as she touched his skin, her hand blackened from cold, and she screamed and screamed and Loki tried to help yet he couldn't _move_. He could only stand there and watch as frostbite ate away at Mother's skin until every inch had of her blackened and shrivelled.

He dreamed of Father's cold, blue eye, staring down at him dispassionately, wordlessly telling Loki he had failed.

When Loki woke, curled in on himself and shivering, he knew something was wrong.

 

* * *

 

Mother said it was for his safety.

She sat on the edge of his bed, turned to where he lay beneath the covers. Her hand had found the blanket-covered lump that was his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Unlike the last time, there wasn't a smile on her lips, not even a sad one. Her eyes were serious and sympathetic when she said, “We just don't want to see you hurt.”

Mother's voice had gotten clearer. Loki wasn't sure why.

It didn't really matter.

( _Nothing,_ Father had said.)

Loki repeated what her what he told her last night. He scraped tongue against teeth and forced his lips to shape the words as he muttered, _“I wasn't going to jump.”_ For all Mother's voice was clearer, Loki words still slurred and stumbled against his will (even his silvertongue was useless, not that anyone had enjoyed its use in the first place). _“I just wanted to be alone.”_

(But monsters can't be left alone. Monsters can't be trusted to be alone. Monsters can't be trusted with freedom or power.)

(Or magic.)

Mother's face grew troubled. Perhaps more of Loki's words had slipped out without him noticing. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear, and Loki briefly wondered just what a mess his hair had become without his normal care. But he didn't move to help her.

He hadn't moved since he woke.

(He bet the Healers had moved him last night, though. He bet they had bathed him too.)

(It hadn't been his fault he wasn't there this time.)

“Loki.” Mother said his name as a sigh. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for our own good. You know that as much as anyone.”

She seemed to be waiting for answer, so Loki moved his heavy head in a nod. It wasn't a lie – he'd been taught since childhood that ruling wasn't between the good choice and the bad choice, but a multitude of difficult ones.

(But it was just the _balcony_. He just wanted to be alone.)

(For their own good, for the good of all, monsters couldn't be left alone.)

( _Nothing,_ Father had said.)

“It won't be for forever,” Mother soothed. “The sooner you're better, the sooner the wards will be removed.”

_Better._

What was that supposed to mean? When he was no longer so weak, with his sluggish mind and slurred words? When he no longer tried to trick and deceive his family, his helpers, his realm? When he knew not to wander, knew to let the Healers take care of him as they were ordered to?

_Nothing_ , Father had said.

Loki certainly felt like nothing, with the hastily-drawn wards imprinted onto every wall that targeted _his_ magic, pushing down against him like stones stacked on top his chest so he couldn't breathe; with the balcony now sealed by spells and locks across its doors, because they must not have believed him when he said he wasn't going to jump.

_(Who would believe a liar? Who would believe a frost giant?)_

For another minute, Mother let him lay there in silence, then she smoothed out her skirts against his bed. There was an almost hesitant look in her eyes as she said, “Yesterday, your Father and I visited because we wanted to talk to you about something. Do you remember what you told me after Healer Gná left?”

_That you_ _ _would have been the only one to truly mourn him. That you were kind enough to treat me like your son.__ Loki nodded, although he wasn't sure which parts he had said out loud.

Mother sighed again. Her face was pale and distressed, just it had been that day. “I realize it must be difficult for you to believe this now, but your Father, Thor, and I all _love_ you. If you passed, we would all mourn you deeply, as would your friends, and all those you've touched and met.”

Him, perhaps. Loki Odin's son. But not a Jotun.

They wouldn't mourn a Jotun. They would _celebrate_ a Jotun's death.

Some wouldn't even mourn Loki Odin's son, second prince of Asgard.

(Some might even celebrate that too.)

Mother thought everyone shared her kindness. She thought that everyone could love as she did, that everyone could care for Loki as she did despite his failings.

But Asgard barely tolerated Loki the Æsir. His friends had only accepted him because of Thor, and while acceptance may have grown into affection, he had never gained their loyalty the way Thor had. If Father had banished Loki instead, no one would have had needed to keep the four of them occupied so they wouldn't rush off to drag to him back home against the king's orders. And once Sif and Volstagg and Fandral and Hogun discovered the truth, whatever affection they held for him would vanish.

Like the rest of Asgard, they would call for his head. Unlike Mother, they would see him for what he really was, not the illusion of the skin Mother had taken to her heart as the truth.

Perhaps that was why it was easier for Mother to accept Loki as her son: she had never seen Loki in his Jotun form. __She__ hadn't been the one to set eyes on him on Jotunheim. __She_ _ hadn't been the one to recognize him as Laufey's son. And there was her magic too – both of theirs; all those days spent learning spells and cantrips and potions from her...Mother must have felt relief that she had someone to share her gifts with, since her real son had no interest in her arts.

As she molded Loki's magic to fits her's, she must have felt kinship in their gifts, forgetting the monster underneath. Mother had first seen him as a defenceless Æsir babe, handed over to her in the warmth and light of Asgard's palace, and had never seen him any differently – just as Thor had only known Loki as a brother, never once guessing at what was concealed from him his whole life.

If Mother thought Thor still loved Loki, then Thor must not know.

(Loki didn't want him to know.)

(Loki didn't want either of them to see what lay beneath his Æsir skin. In case it made Mother and Thor loathe him the way the rest of Asgard would.)

But __Father__ knew the monster underneath. He had seen it the first time he set his eye on Loki. He had seen it when he found Loki in the vault, and when Loki had walked out into the Bifrost. Father couldn't forget where Loki came from, not when he had discovered Loki on that terrible, desolate realm, and not when it was __his__ spell knitted into Loki's body to keep his monstrosity from showing.

Father could never forget. And though he may have tried, he could never have been so free with his love with the truth so near to his mind. Especially not when, despite his best efforts, he could not teach his Jotun foundling to be __better__.

No wonder he always looked on Loki with disappointment.

( _Nothing. There's nothing._ )

Mother began speaking again, breaking into Loki's thoughts after what he realized must have been an uncomfortable silence. She must have been waiting for Loki to reply, and gave up when he didn't. “We would _never_ want you gone, Loki,” she said, eyes so full of belief, as if there really was a _'we'_. “We care about you, and you aren't alone.”

This time, Loki could tell she wanted an answer. Slowly, contemplatively, he nodded. It was harder this time, not just because it was a lie, but his head seemed to have gotten heavier.

Yet that must have worked, for Mother smiled – sadly, of course, because she couldn't be around Loki without being upset. “Your Father believes just the same as I,” she said gently. “He wishes to speak to you about it as well.”

Loki blinked in surprise.

_Why?_ Why would Father wish to talk to Loki about _anything_? He already said he had no plans. Loki had no purpose, no reason to be here.

_Nothing._

Unless...unless there was one thing he was good for.

Unless it was for Mother's sake

Maybe he was Father's gift for her and her alone, since nothing else about Loki was useful. And Mother wouldn't want to see the frost giant she treated like a son act miserable, or apathetic towards her husband. She would want him happy again.

Loki thought it might be a mercy to show her his real skin, and do a favour to her and the realms. Then there really would be no more reason to let him linger here.

But he was too selfish for that.

Mother took the lump of blankets that was his hand again, while her other hand fiddled with the edge of her dress. Nervously, she asked, “Do you want your father to come see you again?”

Loki didn't know how he was supposed to answer that one. He supposed she wanted a _'yes'_ , just

as Father did, but the thought of it made his stomach turn and his heart quicken in fear. Without thinking, he curled up tighter, tucking his knees closer as his hand twitched beneath the blankets.

Mother must have taken pity on him, for she reached out to cup his face and said, “You don't have to decide now. Let one of the Healers know what you've figure out what you want. Healer Lis will be with you today, then Healers Haldis.” She smiled her sad smile, and giving his hand one last squeeze, she said, “And if you _do_ want to go onto the balcony, tell the Healers first.”

Loki didn't move, not as she removed her hands and stood, not as she said, “I will visit you later,” before leaving.

He still didn't move after the door swung shut only to open again as the Healer – Lis, with straight black like Sif's – entered and took a seat in the corner of his room.

Loki felt too heavy to move.

And now that Mother was gone, there was nothing to distract him from the weight of the wards pressing on him from all sides. Thick, cumbersome ropes coiled around him, twisting about his magic as it tried to bind it tight, and tried to make it disappear.

Just like the way a Jotun should be treated.

Like _nothing_.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Healer Lis forced Loki from his bed. She had him go through the same routine as yesterday and the day before that: eating, walking, talking, reading, and resting in between them all.

Loki could barely manage half of them. He had no desire to eat, but he didn't want Healer Lis to try force-feeding him, so he choked down thick spoonful after spoonful until he was worried he would vomit it all up again. Whenever the Healer talked, the words were muddy, and soon nothing but a murmur of background noise; if Loki ever said a word back, he didn't remember voicing it. The books were no more decipherable than yesterday, and Loki even less inclined to focus on the words.

He made the most effort with walking, because he didn't want to crawl any more.

(Even if that was where a Jotun belonged.)

(Because Jotnar had no use, since they were _nothing_.)

The very air seemed to force him down on these walks, grinding him against the floor as the wards ground against his magic, and it took all of Loki's concentration to take one step after another. It took more to not simply crumple to the floor.

So he did not notice until the second walk around his room that certain potions from his worktable were missing.

Loki stopped in the small space between his worktable and the bookcase. As he stared at his potions – the labelled vials and glasses that were always kept in perfect order and all the gaps that _should not be there_ – he realized just which ones were absent.

With a jerk of his head, Loki looked up at the wall just above his fireplace, where a shield and two ceremonial short swords _should_ be hanging. Only the shield remained. The spaces on the wall next to it were bare.

Ignoring Healer Lis fluttering about him nervously, Loki lurched backwards, away from the table. He stumped over to the weapons cabinet next to his wardrobe, and yanked open the doors. They didn't rattle or thump as they should have with the knives attached their sides, but only opened in silence.

Inside, Loki saw why. Because inside, there was nothing but empty pegs and brackets and hooks. There was no dusty sword which hung at the back, rarely-used, nor the short swords which should have flanked it, nor any of the accoutrement of odd weapons he had picked up along the years.

Nor were there any of his knives – not his first knives, gifts from Mother when she realized his fighting style was much more suited to her's than the ones the training masters kept trying to teach him; not the pair he bought with his own gold from the _Á_ lfar market; not the pair Thor had commissioned for him on one of his name days; not the one he found in a dragon's lair after one of his first adventures as an adult.

Not the ones Father had given him when he came of age.

Loki turned around, swaying. Woodenly, he limped his way back to the couch. He did not so much lay down as collapse.

It was _just_ the balcony.

He had been there long enough that he could have jumped, if he had wanted to.  
(Maybe the fall would have killed him.)

(Maybe he should have jumped.)

Healer Lis settled down in front of him and crouched down to his head level, her straight black hair swaying. Like Mother, she told him it was for his safety. She said it had been brought to their attention that Loki may need extra precautions. That it was best he were in a room where danger was minimal.

Loki didn't bother to listen to the rest.

Because Loki knew what it was. It was because he hadn't just used his magic to help the Healers, like changing his clothes or drying himself off. It was the balcony and tricking the Healer to get what he wanted. It was lashing out with his magic in the bath when he was no more than mindless animal.

Now that Loki was out of the fog, they remembered that Loki was no longer harmless.

It was only a surprise this hadn't happened sooner. Or maybe it had, and his weapons and potions and whatever else they'd taken had been gone since he tried to escape from the bath, and he hadn't had the wits to notice.

Loki rolled onto his back, staring at the wooden ceiling far above. His legs curled awkwardly on the couch, the metal of the brace digging into his uninjured left leg at odd angles.

He didn't care enough to move. Healer Lis dwindled down to a vague shape in the background as whatever little energy he had left to him vanished.

He only wished he could say the same about his mind.

No matter how much he wanted his mind as blank as it was in the fog, it wouldn't stop _thinking_ . It was abuzz with thoughts, circling around each other endlessly. And half the time, they focused on one thing:

_Nothing_.

_There's nothing_ , Father had said.

Loki was to be locked away as Father's shame, unfit for the eyes of Asgard.

( _Locked up here until you might have use of me–_ )

But like Father had said, he had no use for Loki now. Why would he? Loki had already shown time and time again he was worthless – worthless as Father's son, worthless even as a tool for Asgard's benefit.

He was only here for Mother's sake. Like a pet that needed to be kept caged, or an animal in a menagerie, though only a few people were permitted to gawk at it – Father couldn't allow Loki to be seen as he was, any more than he could allow Loki be known as a Jotun.

Loki couldn't even fight anymore and earn a warrior's death in Asgard's eyes. Not that the Jotnar probably went to Valhalla anyway.

Useless, even in death.

_Nothing._

He was back where he had started, back when he had sat on the throne and realized the one way to fix it all. Save now, he knew more of what Mother and Father wanted.

Save now, he had no power to enact it.

That would be fine, though. Because the thoughts that had buzzed around Loki's mind in dizzying circles had only been focused on Father's words half the time.

The other half of the time, they had been planning.

And testing the wards.

The wards coiled about him, heavy and thick, but not tight enough.

And Loki had ever been the expert at getting out of tight spots.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this one out a day later than I had expected, but final papers were heavier than I thought. Plus, this chapter is the one I had a lot of trouble with, especially in the last few sections, and it didn't get any easier the second time around. I'm still not entirely happy with the outcome, but after several months of sitting on this thing, there's only so much you can do.

The Healers switched early in the evening from Healer Lis to the one with the bouncy blonde hair – Healer Haldis, Mother had called her.

Loki pretended not to noticed. Even as the world sharpened around him by the hour, he acted no differently with her than the first Healer; he had to, unless suspicions were raised.

Still, by the time Healer Haldis finally brought in supper, seizing it from the two Einherjar Loki spotted through the open door and setting it on the table, Loki felt like a nervous wreck. Outside, though, he knew he looked the same he had all day.

It helped that he hardly moved from his position on the couch.

Loki let Healer Haldis entice him to the table, taking the same slow, limping steps as always. The soup was harder to deal with, since each spoonful increased his urge to vomit.

Halfway through, Loki decided he'd had enough. If he threw up now, his plans would be in ruins. He dropped his hand heavily to the table, letting it thump against the wood as the spoon clattered against the bowl.

_“Can I go to bed now?”_ he mumbled, eyes on the table, like a child asking their nursemaid for permission.

Healer Haldis said nothing for a moment, and Loki glanced up at her through his lashes. Her mouth was pursed, and she looked uncomfortable. _“You still need to bathe, my prince,”_ she hedged.

Pretending he hadn't heard the question, Loki blinked up at her in confusion. Inside, he shuddered. He couldn't _stand_ another moment in his bath, naked and scrubbing furiously as he pretended the pair of Healers weren't only feet away, watching him.

And he could never do this with two Healers around.

As Loki stayed silent, Healer Haldis mulled over her conundrum, frowning. Probably wondering if Loki was worth the effort of the explanation and the fight to force him into the bath.

Evidently, he wasn't. The moment Healer Haldis nodded her assent, Loki stood as quickly as he could while retaining the heavy, awkward motions that marked his movements all day. Though his instincts screamed at his body to hurry, Loki shuffled towards his bedroom. Healer Haldis, ever-watchful, trailed just behind him.

When her steps paused, Loki knew she remembered the bowl of soup, yet he didn't break from his broken stumbling. Normally, Loki would remain at the table or the couch after dinner, well within the sight of whichever Healer was overseeing him, while they cleaned up and returned his dishes to the Einherjar; since no servants entered, and no one trusted Loki to do it himself, it was up to the Healers to keep his rooms tidy. Now, as Loki slipped into his bedroom, Healer Haldis' indecision was nearly palpable. Her footsteps came to a stop just as Loki's partially-closed door hid his figure for a second.

Worry about leaving her charge to his own devices must have won out, for Healer Haldis rushed forward, pushing open the door as Loki reached his bed.

Of course, it hardly mattered what the Healer did. Loki would find his way out of here one way or another.

Leaning heavily against his bed, Loki began to peel back the bed covers. As if his limbs ached, he began to crawl into bed–

_“Wait,”_ Healer Haldis said sharply.

Loki froze, fear leeching into his heart. Had he given something away? Would she confine him, drug him like the other Healer had last night? Would she send for the Einherjar to watch over him while she fetched Father?

But when he glanced over his shoulder, Healer Haldis was holding out his night clothes, folded neatly in her arms. Giving him a questioning look, she slowly approached with the clothes as if Loki might bolt. Loki nodded at her unvoiced question, and resigned himself to the feeling of another's magic swapping his clothes, like someone else's skin pressing against his body for the briefest of moments.

(They didn't even trust Loki to change his clothes by himself.)

Nightclothes on and trial over, Loki collapsed onto his bed, drawing the covers high enough that only his hair showed. Keeping his breathing deep and even, Loki listened as Healer Haldis folded up his used clothes and took the seat in the corner, like all the Healers did.

Loki waited a moment for her to settle. Then, digging his nails into his palms as he clenched his hands, Loki drew on his magic, molding it to the shape he wanted until it brushed up against the chains of the wards. Loki held it there, just on the edge of strain.

And he waited.

He did not wait long.

The chair squeaked as Healer Haldis rose. Her footsteps crossed the floor, hesitated, then moved to the door.

Loki shoved his magic against the wards before she even had it open. He could feel the chains writhing against him, trying to push the magic back into himself. But Loki was stronger.

An illusory lump of bed-covers and mussed black hair remained in place as Loki peeked out from under the sheets. Healer Haldis had disappeared into his outer rooms, though luckily had left the door open behind her.

Gritting his teeth, Loki pulled on his magic again, and he could almost hear the chains groaning as he stretched them to their limit.

This part was harder.

But the chains gave just enough, and as Loki's magic trickled over him, he faded from sight and hearing. Without a moment to lose, he stumbled out of bed and to the door, where he could hear the clanking of the dishes from his entry room. Healer Haldis was gathering up his dishes, balancing his cup inside his bowl while she cleaned up the table.

Sweat rolling down forehead onto the bridge of his nose, Loki limped by her, as clumsy and slow as a child, even with the brace. If he hadn't masked himself from hearing, he would've been given away in an instant from the way his brace clumped and scraped across the floor.

Loki was starting to pant by the time he heaved himself against the wall just beside the door. His limbs were beginning to shake. Even though the Healer was jogging towards the door, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Loki's bedroom, it seemed to take an eternity for her to cross the space.

At last Healer Haldis reached the door and reached for the handle. The moment she creaked it opened, and Loki could _feel_ the wards slipping looser. He leaned towards the gap without thinking, bringing him bare centimetres away from Healer Haldis. He just needed it open wide enough–

With another glance behind her, the Healer yanked the door wide and took a step out, leaving just enough room between her and the doorframe.

Loki threw himself into the opening, and as the wards released him, Loki gasped. It was like he had been drowning, but his head finally broke the surface and he gulped down air as if it might disappear. He barely heard one of the Einherjar saying, _“Not even half of dinner again?”_

As Loki stood with his magic bursting inside of him, the spacious hallway dizzying after so long in his rooms, Healer Haldis said, _“I know. We aren't sure what to do.”_

And then she was gone, door closed behind her. Loki felt the tenuous thread keeping his illusion in place wavering through the wards; with a bit of concentration, Loki could hold it firm. Loki almost laughed out loud. Then he did, remembering no one could hear him.

He was _free_.

If this was the last thing he felt, he would die happy.

Not that he deserved it.

 

* * *

 

“He was worse than yesterday,” Frigga whispered in Odin's ear, her voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the clatter and murmur of the feast. Her plate remained mostly untouched, and her knuckles were white where she clutched her goblet. “It was like he was back in his stupor. He barely moved.”

Odin stabbed mournfully at a slice of mutton, feeling about as hungry as his wife. Eyeing a passing noble who was came rather close to the head table where Odin and Frigga were seated, Odin said nothing at first. He waited for the noble to rejoin his fellows at one of the tables before he turned back to Frigga. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Odin asked, “Do you...do you know if Loki has decided if he wishes to see me?”

(To be asking _permission_ to see his own _son_ , of all things...but they had agreed this was for the best.)

As expected, but no less painful, Frigga gave a tight shake of her head. “No, Healer Lis said Loki didn't speak at all after I left. And when he saw that we had his weapons removed...” Frigga preferred to look into the depths of her mead rather than Odin. “She said his condition declined.”

For a moment, Odin felt a dark heaviness creep over his heart. Then, a strange, indignant kind of anger overtook him, and slicing at his meat with more vigour than necessary, Odin growled, “We should have taken them away much sooner than we did. The _moment_ the Healers brought him to his rooms, we should have taken those precautions. And the wards – after he knocked those Healers away, we should have put them up, not waited until something like _this_ happened.” Odin abruptly gave up attacking his dinner, and let his fork fall to the table as he rubbed his hands down his face. “We need to keep him _safe_ , and he could have–”

Frigga's cool hand touched his, interrupting his outburst. “But I don't think _Loki_ sees it that way,” she said quietly. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, lowering it gently to the table. “He told me he just wanted to be alone when he went out on the balcony.”

Odin looked at her sharply. “Do you believe him?” Seeing Loki on the balcony leaning over the railing, fear had overtaken Odin's every thought. It felt like he was running across the Bifrost's chamber again, watching Loki slowly walking towards the light.

A tired look entered Frigga's eyes, and she pressed her lips together. “I would not be surprised,” she murmured. “We don't know how long he was out there for, and he always _has_ preferred to be left to his own devices.”

Odin sighed. “I know, I know, but he _can't_ be.” He picked up his knife and fork again, but only stared down at his plate. “We _can't_ leave him alone,” he muttered.

He heard Frigga let out a sound like an objection. But if she disagreed, she didn't voice it.

As Odin stared at the golden firelight glittering off the blade of his knife, thought of how easy it might have been for Loki to head for his weapons cabinet instead of the balcony.

Odin shuddered, then shoved one of his recently-sliced hunks of mutton in his mouth and chewed furiously. Perhaps that Loki had gone to the balcony instead of his weapons meant Loki had truly wanted to be alone. It hardly changed the situation, though.

It hardly changed what had happened last evening.

Every damn time he tried to see Loki, Loki somehow managed not to see him. And for the past few days, Odin's arrival was apparently the _only_ time Loki had returned to his stupor. Around Frigga and the Healers, Loki was perfectly aware, but when he saw Odin...

Loki decided being unaware was _better_.

Was it _fear_ that drove him, like the terror Odin had seen in Loki's eyes as he crawled backwards those few days away? Was it fear that drove him to hide inside his mind?

But fear of _what_?

(That Odin wanted him dead? Or that he didn't?)

Odin reached for his mead and downed half of it in one swing. It didn't quite deaden the emotions inside him, but it helped as a distraction.

At least, Odin thought with some satisfaction as he speared a potato, he had managed to tell Loki something of merit last night. In the seconds after Loki had asked him what Odin planned to do with him, Odin remembered Loki's words in the vault – _another stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me_. Just as he had then, Odin had tried to reassure Loki that he was no political pawn.

Whether Loki believed him, or even _heard_ when his eyes had grown blank and dull and his body slack, was another matter.

Odin swallowed the rest of his mead, then signalled a servant for another, though he knew he should hold back. Normally, he tried to keep to one glass per meal, keeping his wits sharp about him in case any nobles or diplomats thought to try to catch him in his cups.

Last night, Odin had almost polished off three.

Last night, he couldn't help thinking that he shouldn't be eating at feasting hall, sitting on high as servants scuttled about and nobles and warriors laughed and dined. Last night, Odin should have been in Loki's rooms.

The Healers had conceded to plans for a dinner with Loki – if Loki was willing, of course. Their only stipulation was that Loki shouldn't drink in his state, so Odin and Frigga had agreed to abstain as well. The moment Loki agreed, there had been a small feast ready to be prepared.

When Odin saw Loki reading on the couch, as normal as any other day, Odin's hopes had soared so high.

Those hopes had vanished as completely as Loki's illusion.

Odin's appetite soured again, just as the servant arrived with a new goblet of mead. Odin lifted it up to take a drink, and ended up downing more than expected.

Last night, he had planned to have none.

How quickly plans change.

Feeling the mead curdling in his stomach as much as his dinner, Odin set the goblet down. As he did, he noticed several warriors at one of the table were staring at the head table and muttering with heads bent together.

More specifically, they stared at the empty seats which should have sat the princes.

When the warriors caught sight of Odin, their eyes were quick to turn back to their friends, but not quick enough. Odin stared at them, letting disapproval and an icy rage fill his eye. The few that glanced back caught sight of his expression, and visibly paled before returning to their meals, heads down and posture hunched.

There wasn't much Odin could truly do, unless he wished to cut off the tongues of all those who dared slander his son. Now that he looked, Lady Freya seemed to be glancing back at the empty seats more often than not, along with Lord Yngvi, and he did not doubt more lords, ladies, warriors, and even servants were discreetly gossiping about the absences of Asgard's princes.

Courtesy and respect – as well as perhaps a dose of fear – kept most subjects from badgering Odin about Loki's condition. But every time he was offered condolences, he could tell there was the expectation that Odin might tell them more than “the Healers are helping him through his illness”. He did not doubt Frigga had it the same, if not much worse.

And the longer Loki stayed hidden from sight, the more outrageous the rumours grew. There was one whisper going about saying that Loki had died in Laufey's attack, and Odin and Frigga were only keeping up appearance. Another said that Loki had died but returned as a draugr, and the steady march of Healers to and from his rooms were frantic attempts to reverse the curse. Still more believed that Loki had been horribly disfigured in his fight with Laufey, and stayed in his rooms until the worst of his afflictions had healed

(That one was not far off.)

The ones about Thor, while fewer, were hardly easier to bear. There were some that believed he had died in the assault on Jotunheim, and reports of his banishment were only a ruse. Some thought Thor's banishment as mortal was permanent, and old age had taken him already. More said that both Thor and Loki had been killed, and Odin hid their deaths to keep the throne secure.

And now Odin's warriors dared spread more rumours in his hall, under his eye–

“Odin,” Frigga murmured, leaning in close again. “As much as we might wish to bash their heads together every time they gossiped about our sons, soon all our subjects would be beset with headaches.”

Odin started, not realizing she had noticed the stares as well. “It's an idea, though,” he replied, turning to her with lips curling in a small smile.

Frigga gave a light snort, returning his conspiring grin in kind. Then her eyes caught something beyond Odin shoulder, and the smile fell. A note of exhaustion crept in her voice as she said, “ But you know we have bigger problems than a few gossips.”

Odin followed her gaze, and immediately understood her fatigue. “Yes, your meeting with Lord Fjölnir today,” he sighed. The Vanir councillor who was pushing for answers about what happened to Jotunehim was seated with the rest of his delegation. He looked merry enough, chatting with his neighbours, not quite as boisterous as the Æsir around them, but then the Vanir had always been more relaxed. And Fjölnir certainly didn't look like a man worried about Vanaheim's future. To Frigga, Odin asked, “I take it the meeting went poorly?”

“No, it went as well as could be expected,” Frigga said, shaking her head. “He trusts me, of course, to look out for Vanaheim's best interests. He still needs assurances from you, but it's not him I'm worried about – Vanaheim has been our allies since the day I married you.” She ran a hand down Odin's arm, a soft smile spreading across face. “Speaking to you is only to settle the partisan groups. The Dwarfs and Elves, though...” Eyes flickering away, she swallowed, and when she turned back her gaze was no less sharp for its worry. “Have you set a day to speak to all of them?” she asked, an edge in her voice.

“In two days,” he said, relieving some of the tension in her expression. But it did nothing to ease Odin's. He couldn't very well take Loki to _trial_ , especially not in his state.

He could almost image Loki, blinking dumbly at the council, mumbling answers every now and again. Or falling insensate after they asked a question that disturbed whatever madness lay in his mind, his eyes dim and distant. Or terror carved into his face as he scrambled backwards, making sounds like a frightened animal in front all the court and councillors and diplomats.

Odin rubbed a hand across his face. “What are we going to do?” he muttered.

“We'll figure something out,” Frigga said. She hid the doubt well enough from her voice, but it was written in every line of her face.

Odin was no more optimistic.

 

* * *

 

The brace scraped horribly against the floor, worse than it had in his rooms. If Loki hadn't muffled the sound, it would have brought half of Asgard running.

That was why Loki decided to teleport as far he could to his destination. That, and he wasn't sure he could make the walk with the limping awkwardness of the brace, nor did he know how long Healer Haldis would remained fooled by his illusion. The thread of magic connecting him to the simulacrum still held, but what if it faltered? Or if Loki's attention grew lax and he forgot something like making it breathe? Or if Healer Haldis grew suspicious and decided to touch him, just to make sure?

No, it was best to save as much time as he could, so Loki hobbled the last few steps towards the massive gold doors. The two Einherjar flanking the doors looked straight on, oblivious to their false-prince clothed in flimsy night-wear limping closer. They were just as oblivious as Loki slipped between them and through the doors, an extra burst of magic cloaking the door's movement.

No sooner had Loki taken his first step inside, than a wave of pain crashed into him. It burst into his stomach, rent open his chest, and weakened his knees until he knew he could no longer stand. He sank to the ground, lowering his head between his knees and breathing in carefully through his nose and out through his mouth. The pain pulsed through his heart as the fog pushed against him, thankfully and cursedly less insistent than it used to be.

But the sight of the Vault dredged up too many memories.

( _“I'll hunt down the monsters and slay them all–”_ )

( _“The monster parents tell their children about at night–”_ )

( _Father, falling to the ground, his body limp–_ )

Loki breathed. He breathed, focusing on nothing but his chest expanding, the wheeze of cool air between dry lips, and the steady in and out, because he _couldn't_ let his weakness overwhelm him. Not now. Not when he had barely started.

The plan was exceedingly simple, despite the difficulty in getting down here. He just needed to make it back to his rooms after this. He only wished he could have uncovered his Jotun skin without the Casket's help, but unfortunately Father's spell still ran too deep to remove it permanently on his own. Without it, he wouldn't have needed to come down here at all.

But at least now, he would die something like a warrior. That was, if he could get back to his rooms first.

The wards were a problem once they could chain and cage him again, but Loki would wreak what havoc he could outside of them. Inside, the Casket would take care of the rest. The trick would be getting the Einherjar and Healer Haldis out of the way without hurting them.

Because if it all worked out as it should, in a few minutes a frost giant would burst into Prince Loki's rooms. It would hold off the prince's Einherjar and Healer, using the Casket to seal them outside of the bedroom just long enough kill Asgard's second prince in revenge for its broken realm. And then that frost giant would die at the hands of the brave Æsir warriors defending their kingdom – killing it the way a proper Æsir _should_.

A clean break this time. No loose ends.

It would even give Father an excuse to march his armies into Jotunheim, if that was what he wanted. With the damage from the Bifrost, not many Æsir would be lost to whatever Jotnar remained. And if Father didn't want war, he could always say Jotunheim was a broken, dying realm anyway – in a few centuries, they would cease to trouble anyone. All Asgard had to do was secure the “breach” in Asgard's defences, and the threat would be gone.

And maybe, once Mother saw what her Jotun son looked like beneath her husband's glamour, she would finally realize why he wasn't worth keeping. Maybe then, it wouldn't hurt her when Loki died.

Loki should have done this to begin with.

Heart no longer racing, though each beat was lanced with pain, Loki stood. He hurried as quickly as he could down the stairs and past the relics of Asgard, taking the same steps he had last time. When he reached the plinth at the end of the aisle, he hesitated, hands hovering at the Casket's sides, just as he had before,.

( _“Stop!” Father had shouted, only Father wasn't here now._ )

Loki lifted the Casket off the plinth and into his arms. While he refused to look down, already he could feel his Æsir skin peeling back from his hands as he turned back to the doors.

He hadn't even made it one step when he heard it:

The sound of the metal bars sliding back, and the heavy tread of metal footsteps.

Loki froze, though his Jotun skin did not, crawling further up his body with every second.

_No_. No, how could he have _forgotten_ – how could he have been so _careless_ –

Loki glanced over his shoulder as the Destroyer fully emerged from behind its cage, its blank faceplate staring down at him.

And Loki knew never he'd make it out the room in time.

He'd barely be able to put a defence, not without any weapons; even if his legs worked, there was barely any room manoeuvre, and there were few spells that could stop the _Destroyer_ –

But maybe...maybe he didn't have to.

It wouldn't be as neat of a plan – there wouldn't be any way to explain the sudden disappearance of Prince Loki, especially to the Healers and Einherjar that were supposed to be watching him. But surely Father could think of _something_ – after all, Asgard had seen this all before. Frost giants had entered the Vault to the steal the Casket, and the Destroyer had taken care of them. There was nothing too conspicuous for Father to deal with.

Loki turned back to face the Destroyer, his hideous Jotun skin now fully exposed and the perfect target for Asgard's most feared defender.

He trained his blood-red eyes on the Destroyer and waited to die.

Except the Destroyer didn't move.

Its faceplate hadn't even split apart, nor had the orange glow of its fire lit in its depth. It just stood there, like Loki, its head tilted down towards him.

Loki blinked. He didn't understand.

He was a _Jotun_. The Destroyer was _supposed_ to kill him. A Jotun with the Casket in its arms, no less – what better target could there _be?_

Except...except, no, that wasn't what it saw.

It saw a runt. A crippled, runt of a frost giant, barely able to stand under its own power. Where was the threat in a thing like _that_?

A thing like that wasn't even worth killing.

Loki felt dizzy. His grip on the Casket had began to loosen, his fingers feeling limp, when suddenly the Destroyer moved.

It raised its foot, and for a moment, Loki thought it had decided simply to crush him, step on him like an insect or wrap a hand around Loki and squeeze.

The Destroyer did neither. It walked straight over him, footsteps crashing against the ground as it strode down the length of the Vault and to the doors. Loki wondered if it would send the Einherjar in to kill him instead, since a lame runt wasn't worth its time.

( _And that would be fine,_ Loki thought.)

But the Destroy didn't open the doors. It just turned at the top of the steps, then slowly lowered its body to the floor, arranged its legs over-top the stairs, and leaned its back against the doors.

Sealing Loki in.

Loki stared, thoughts churning, and realized that if the Destroyer hadn't killed him by now, then it wasn't acting on its own.

Father would have been watching.

Father would have seen him taking the Casket.

Father would have seen him _stealing_ the Casket, sneaking in like a thief and trying to sneak away – a Jotun with the Casket, and what else would a Jotun _do_ with the Casket but–

Loki was moving forward before he finished that thought. Mid-way across the Vault he dropped the Casket. It collided against the ground with a deep, booming sound that echoed around the Vault, but Loki didn't look back, and feeling his Æsir skin wash over him with a shiver, he began to run as fast as his ruined leg would allow. He stumbled up the steps – the steps he had stalked up when Father had fallen – past where he had crouched at Father's side, and crawled over the Destoyer's legs to the top of the dais.

Banging on Destroyer's warm metal chest, Loki screamed.

The Destroyer didn't move.

 

* * *

 

Odin ran down the hall with much less decorum than a king should ever display. Frigga, at his side, didn't look much better.

In this moment, neither of them gave a damn.

“Is he still there? Is he safe?” Frigga asked, eyes panicked and tendrils of her hair flying askew.

“No one can enter or leave the vault through magic,” Odin puffed out, “not even Loki.” Still, feeling as if by saying the words out loud had he asked the universe to prove him wrong, Odin couldn't help slipping the Destroyer's eyesight over his own for a second.

When Odin had first felt the awakening Destroyer's sight pushing into his, he had been in the middle of mulling over possibilities of how to deal with the diplomats. He had frozen with his goblet halfway to his mouth, thinking that the Jotnar were stealing into the Vault to take the Casket again – this time without Loki's help.

Yet it was not a towering Jotnar that greeted him as he slipped into the Destroyer's eyes, but a single, hunched blue, figure.

Loki.

Loki, clad only in night clothes, his feet bare, clutching the Casket to his chest like it was his most prized possession, and turning around to stare up at the Destroyer with a mixture of fear and defiance and a hundred other things in those red eyes Odin didn't think he could name.

Odin's mind blanked. Until the questions came flooding in.

_Why–_

_What in the Nine–_

_How did you get out of your rooms–_

_What are you **doing** , Loki?_

Odin had watched as Loki's defiance fell into doubt, and his fear into misery. And then Odin was standing, goblet falling from his hand and chair scraping against the floor. He had barely noticed Frigga calling his name, nor her footsteps behind him as Odin ran down the aisle between tables.

But he had noticed the odd silence as the two of them reached the doors, where only nervous whispers dared break the stillness.

The moment Odin left the feasting hall, three Einherjar had cleaved to his and Frigga's sides. The lead one asked, “My king, where are we needed–”

“Go to Loki's rooms,” Odin demanded, barely sparing the man a glance. “Get his Healers, his guards – take them down to the Vault!” If Odin and Frigga needed help, there were very few others that could be allowed to see Loki. Even if some of them had let Loki run off.

Frigga clutched Odin's arm when she heard Loki's name, but she waited for the Einherjar to leave before she frantically demanded, “Why _the Vault?_ What _happened?_ ”

Knowing had made her run faster.

Now, looking through the Destroyer's eyes, Odin didn't know if they would still need the help from Loki's Healers. Loki remained at the top of the steps, yet he no longer flung himself so bodily against the Destroyer. He only leaned against the Destroyer's chest at an angle that hid his face from Odin's sight, while his frenzied shouting had dwindled down to gasps.

“Loki is safe for now,” Odin added to Frigga, quickly drawing his eye away from the defeated slump of Loki's shoulders and the deep breathes that wracked Loki's frame like sobs.

Odin tried not to imagine the worst.

(The worst still came to mind.)

It felt like hours later when they arrived at the doors to the Vault. Two Einherjar were trying to open the door, but at the sound of Odin and Frigga's approach, they spun around.

“Allfather,” one said, leaping to attention, “we can't get into the Vault. We thought the Destroyer had activated and we heard–”

“It did,” Odin growled, cutting the man off. He didn't have the patience to explain what exactly they might have _heard_ from inside. “Go to the Healers. Ask for the ones in charge of Prince Loki. _Now_ ,” he said, when the two didn't move. It hardly mattered that the Healers were probably already on their way. Trusted Einherjar though these two may be – trusted enough to guard the Vault – they were not part of the rotation set on Loki's rooms. The less witnesses, the better.

Waiting until the Einherjar had retreated down the hall, Odin at last called on the Destroyer. It obeyed, the sound of metal grating against metal filtering past the doors as it rose. Odin stood with Frigga, willing the Destroyer to move faster. His hands clenched into fists; she wrung her hands until she noticed, and stilled them by clutching her skirts.

When the Destroyer finally came to a halt, Odin gave Frigga a nod. After taking a deep breath she nodded back, and followed Odin as he pushed the door open.

Loki was no longer at top of the stairs. He must have withdrawn with the Destroyer, but he hadn't followed it to the centre of the room, where the it taken up guard. Instead, Loki had stopped at the bottom of the steps, arms wrapped about his chest and pale face staring up at the doors.

He flinched back when Odin entered, eyes darting between him and Frigga. The two of them hadn't even crossed the threshold when Loki blurted out, “I wasn't trying to steal the Casket, I promise. I made a mistake.”

Odin stopped in the middle of the doorway, staring. His eye flickered to the Casket, where it lay on the floor between its plinth and the Destroyer, and then to Frigga's doubtful face. Because for whatever mad plan Loki had conjured now, stealing the Casket appeared to be part of it, seeing as he had been poised to flee when the Destroyer caught sight of him.

(That was, until Loki had turned and waited for the Destroyer to destroy him.)

(Unless _that_ was the plan.)

Misgiving must have shown in their expressions, for Loki quailed. Frigga immediately smoothed her expression into sympathy and said, “Loki–”

“ _I_ _was not stealing it_ ,” Loki insisted, backing up a step, his bare foot sliding against the stone. Panic shone in his eyes, and he held his body as tight as a bow-string. “You would still have it. I would _never_ have given it to them–”

“Loki, calm down,” Odin said as gently as he could and haltingly began walking down the steps – not like the last time he had stood in the Vault. Not like when he had remained so distant on the stairs, waiting for Loki to approach while his son fell apart.

And yet, considering how Loki had reacted the last times Odin had come close...it would be best to go slow. If Loki could look at him and speak to him without falling into his stupor, then Odin would try to keep it that way.

Holding out a placating hand, Odin said, “Tell us, Loki–” _Tell us if you were trying to die._ “–Tell us what you mean.”

Loki began shaking his head. He took another step backwards, the scrape his brace against the floor echoing in the hall. “I _wasn't_ stealing it for them,” he protested, sounding on the verge of tears. “I wasn't going to give it to them, I wasn't going to give it the Jotnar, please, _believe me._ ”

Once again, Odin stopped short, dumbfounded.

The _Jotnar?_ Why in the Nine would Loki _even think_ –

“Of course we believe you, Loki,” Frigga said quickly, her tone hitting the perfect note between trust and reassurance. Her steps were more measured, never once faltering as she passed by Odin down the stairs. “We never doubted you.”

“Yes, that's right. We never thought that you would hand it over,” Odin added, gently, like he was trying to calm a spooked horse. Wherever had that idea had come from – Loki had tried to _destroy_ Jotunheim, why would he think anyone believed he would _help_ it?

(How deep did Loki's madness run?)

Loki still looked unsure, lips parted and eyes gleaming as he studied their faces. But he had stopped walking backwards, and now Odin and Frigga were on the second flight of stairs. They were so close, so long as Loki didn't move–

“What were you planning to use the Casket for, then? How did you–” Odin began, then realizing that might sound like an accusation, backtracked and asked, “Why did you decide to leave your rooms without the Healer, Loki?”

_(How did you escape the Wards, Loki?)_

(They were there to protect him, to keep him _safe_ , so things like this wouldn't _happen_.)

But Loki abruptly clamped his mouth shut. His body quavered, and he looked away.

“I promise we aren't angry,” Frigga soothed. “We just want to know.”

“No, we aren't angry,” Odin agreed, and it wasn't a lie – he was much too worried for anger. “You won't be punished either,” he added, a touch desperately. So long as it was fear of retribution that kept Loki's mouth sealed, and not fear of Odin – not fear that Odin _hated_ him, or whatever else Loki's mind had conjured – Odin could accept it.

“If you don't want to speak here, we can go back to your rooms. You can tell us later.” Frigga was nearing the base of the stairs, her hands outstretched as if waiting for Loki to run into them.

Loki did not. He only stood there, glancing nervously between the two of them.

“Why did you leave your rooms, Loki?” Odin asked again, softly. “Why do you want the Casket?”

( _Were you trying to die again, Loki?_ )

( _Did you want to die because of me?_ )

Loki remained silent. Body tensed, he watched the two of them advance with uncertainty glittering in his eyes. Then his gaze settled on Frigga, and his eyes widened.

In the silence, as Loki's arms began to uncurl from around his body, Odin heard the faint whisper of footsteps. Not just one set, but several of them, echoing in from the hall and accompanied by the murmur of voices.

Odin looked over his shoulder at the doors of the Vault. The doors which had been left wide open when–

“Loki!”

At Frigga's exclamation, Odin whipped his head back around. There was Frigga, one arm outstretched as she raced down the last of the stairs, and Loki, no longer still and silent but bolting at a limping gait towards the far end of the Vault–

No.

No, with his posture hunched and head bent as if his gaze was locked on something on the ground, there was only one thing Loki could be heading towards.

The Casket.

And the footsteps behind them were getting louder.

“ _Wait!_ ” Odin yelled, charging down the steps. Loki didn't listen.

But the Destroyer did.

It reached out, and when Loki was only a meter from the fallen Casket, it clamped one metal fist over Loki's arm. Loki stumbled to a halt, crying out.

Frigga stopped as Odin did, a hand going to her mouth. Odin hadn't expected the Destroyer to react, but if it meant Loki _stopped_ , then–

“ _No,_ ” Loki moaned, low and wavering. He struggled against the Destroyer's grip, wrenching his arm forward. He hadn't taken his eyes off the Casket yet. “ _No, no, no–_ ”

“ _Odin,_ ” Frigga gasped, turning on Odin with her eyes flashing. “What _are you_ –”

“ _No, no_ , please.” Loki's wail cut through her voice, filling the Vault until Odin couldn't tell if the footsteps had grown closer or not. “You have to _see_. Mother, you just need to _see_ –”

“Yes, Loki I will–” Frigga said, starting towards Loki again until Odin snatched her arm.

When she stared at him at, affronted, Odin hissed at her, “ _Not now_ ,” then called out, “Loki, you need to stop–”

But Loki barely even paused for breath. “ _Please_ , it's for the best, you'll understand,” he carried on, breathless and desperate. He was pulling towards the Casket, his fingers scrabbling at the metal hand. “You need to see what I really _am,_ Mother–”

“ _Odin_ ,” Frigga warned, her eyes narrowed and steel in her voice as she shrugged off his grip. “If you think–”

“Frigga, _look_ –” Odin snapped, gesturing towards the door – there wasn't time to explain, but if she saw, if she heard the footsteps growing ever-closer, she would understand – and advancing towards Loki with panic blossoming in his chest, he yelled, “ _Loki_ , please, stop this–”

“ _You never saw._ ” Loki's voice broke, though his shout still drowned out Odin's voice. At last he glanced back and his eyes were wild, as desperate as his voice. “You never saw like Father did. You never saw the _monster_ underneath, you never saw that I'm–”

Odin could hear the footsteps coming to a stop. He could hear Frigga's gasp as she finally looked towards the door. And Odin could see the shape of the words forming in Loki's mouth.

_A Jotun._

“ _Loki, BE QUIET!_ ” Odin bellowed.

The moment the words left Odin's mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. He didn't need Frigga's look of mingled shock and reproach to know.

He didn't need to see Loki's flinch, the way his mouth snapped shut, or the way his eyes grew wide in shock.

In _fear_.

Odin whirled towards the doors, where he could see a crowd of faces clustered in the doorway, Healers and Einherjar both.

The Healers and Einherjar Odin had ordered to come to the Vault.

“ _OUT!_ ” Odin roared, marching up the steps. “All of you, _get OUT!_ ”

They scrambled to obey, retreating from the doorway, but not swift enough for Odin. He strode to the top of the steps and glared out at the gathered faces, none of whom met his eye. “ _Wait here_ ,” Odin growled, and slammed the door closed before they could give their assent.

Odin knew they were hardly to blame for obeying his orders. That didn't lessen his rage.

Mostly at himself.

_(He hadn't found the right words. All this time, and he still couldn't find the right words to say. He'd only found the wrong words.)_

_(He always found the wrong words.)_

When Odin returned to the bottom of the vault, Frigga was murmuring quietly to Loki. She stood just on the other side of the Destroyer's arm, making small gestures as she spoke.

If Loki was listening to her, he did not show it. He had stopped struggled, and now only stood staring down at the floor, unmoving. His arm hung slack from the Destroyer's grasp.

It was like Loki had shrunk, his explosion of desperation and resolve collapsing in on itself until all that was left was a husk.

An empty shell, again.

Odin swallowed nervously, and wondered if he had lost his chance in three careless words.

Feet feeling as heavy as all those nights he visited Loki's rooms as his son sat in his stupor, Odin at last reached the Destroyer. As he joined Frigga's side, she stopped speaking and looked at him, her gaze filled with a mixture of anger and worry. Understanding her well enough, Odin glanced at the Destroyer, and it carefully unclenched its metal fist.

Loki's arm limply flopped back to his side. He didn't even seem to notice the Destroyer had let go.

The sight sent a sick twist through Odin's stomach.

“I did not mean to shout,” Odin blurted out. Even if Loki could no longer hear him, lost in his head again, Odin at least had to _try_. “I'm not angry, I – you just cannot let others know what you...that you are Jotun. For your safety.”

Loki's body rocked, like he had absorbed a blow, or like a flinch had run its way through his body. Relief and unease flooded Odin – relief Loki was still in there, responsive and responding; and yet unease sat heavy in Odin's stomach, for he wondered what he had said wrong now. Was it _“Jotun”_? Or something else?

“We don't want you to get hurt,” he said softly, in case that helped. “Do you understand?”

Silence followed. Loki didn't even look up.

Odin tried not to shift his feet restlessly. “I – your mother and I both love you,” he said. He could not state it plainer than that. “I told you before, you are my son, even if you are not of my blood. I don't want–” _To see you dead._ “I don't want to see you injured, Loki. I haven't – I just want you _safe_.”

When Loki still did nothing, Frigga spoke up. “We're doing what we can to keep you from harm.” She reached out her hand towards Loki's shoulder, when abruptly Loki moved.

He pulled away from her hand, sliding his bare foot backwards just enough to take him out of Frigga's reach. Then he nodded in a small, jerky movement.

As Frigga struggled to maintain her composure, Odin wondered if that small nod was supposed to be agreement.

“Do you wish to touch the Casket now?” Frigga asked. She had managed a smile, but the warmth was forced. “You can show me what you really–”

Loki shook his head, and Frigga let her sentence trail off.

Odin realized she was as lost as he was.

“Can you tell us what you were doing here?” Odin asked, hoping to bring the conversation to something easier. Something that would bring the life back to Loki. “Why did you want to leave your rooms?”

For a moment, Loki did not respond. Frigga opened her mouth to speak–

“I was wrong,” Loki said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Frigga looked at Odin, as taken aback as Odin felt, yet Loki spoke before either of them could reply.

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again,” he murmured. At last he looked up at them, eyes flickering between them before returning to the floor. “May I go back to my rooms now?” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

As Odin opened the door of the Vault, he counted eleven faces turning towards him – all four Healers, Loki's Einherjar, the Einherjar guarding the Vault, and the three that had accompanied Odin after the feast and fetched the Healers.

Too many.

Far too many.

As the eleven of them stood at attention, several pairs of eyes glanced towards the open door and beyond. Odin shut the door firmly behind him and, in the silence that followed, surveyed his waiting subjects. One Healer looked distraught, wringing trembling hands, and Odin guessed she was the one that had been with Loki when he had escaped. And the five Einherjar that hadn't been guarding Loki's rooms seemed...unsettled.

It was those five Odin worried about. The others were at least used to Loki's outburst. But them...

As if on cue, one of the Einherjar who had been guarding the Vault asked hesitantly, “Prince Loki, is he–”

“He is fine,” Odin said sharply. He looked between the five of them, his face expressionless, and one of the younger ones swallowed nervously. They never should have come here. Odin should never have ordered them to come here. “Prince Loki is doing well, and you will not say otherwise. To anyone.”

“Yes Allfather,” the five said almost in chorus. Norns only knew what they thought of what they had heard. But they would keep their silence.

“You are dismissed,” he ordered. He'd deal with replacements for guarding the Vault later.

The five bowed and quickly moved off. The moment they disappeared down the corridor, the distraught Healer came forward, her hands shaking at her sides and barely able to look Odin in the eye. “Allfather,” she said, “I – I am sorry, I didn't see the prince leave his rooms, he must have – I'm sorry.” She bowed her head.

“We have failed in our duty,” one of Loki's Einherjar said, kneeling beside her.

“We will comply with whatever punishment you deem acceptable,” the other said, mirroring his brethren's movements.

Odin coolly looked the three of them over, but didn't respond. Instead, he turned his attention to the other three Healers. “The queen needs help getting the prince back to his rooms. Not you,” he said to one of them – Healer _Ilmr, he thought. “I wish to speak with you.”_

_As the others moved off, except for the three awaiting punishment, Odin drew Healer Ilmr aside._ Quietly, he said, “There is something I need you to obtain for Loki, if you can find one that fits my specifications.”

There was a flash of concern in the Healer's eyes, but she quickly hid it behind flat interest. “What is it, my king?”

Odin opened his mouth, then hesitated. He didn't want to give this order. He hadn't discussed it yet with Frigga, but considering the both of them had agreed to the wards, she might concede to this as well.

And he didn't know what choice he had.

In the end, it hardly mattered what Loki's exact plans for the Casket were. Loki might have been trying to make the Destroyer kill him after all. He might have planned to take the Casket right into the feasting hall, revealing himself in front of everyone's eyes, and get struck down before Odin could stop them. He could have been trying to repeat his first plan, if in his addled state he thought he could get Heimdall to fall for the same trick twice, and freeze Heimdall in place as he set the Bifrost on Jotunheim once more.

What was worse, oddly, was that Loki hadn't even tried to lie about his intentions for the Casket; he hadn't prepared some ornate, believable excuse for how he escaped his rooms. There had only been scrambled apologies and meek acceptance – not at all like the clever, silver-quick son Odin knew.

Odin wondered if he would have _preferred_ if Loki had been trying to steal the Casket for Jotunheim. Because at least that would mean Loki had a plan to survive.

It would mean that Loki wasn't trying to get himself killed.

Heart heavy, reluctance dragging at every word, Odin told the Healer, “I need something to assure that Loki cannot escape his rooms like this again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first, I only a vague plan of why Loki was escaping and what that would entail, with little beyond Loki going after the Casket and him getting caught somehow. When I started filling in that plan with details, I only belatedly realized it would end up somewhat similar to a scene I did in another fic. However, I decided to go ahead with the plan anyway because I couldn't think of anything better (and what happens with the Destroyer is close to what I like to imagine would happen based on the bit in the [Thor script](http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Thor.html) where the Destroyer emerges after Loki grabs the Casket...except if Odin didn't arrive in time to stop it personally.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what! I'm still alive and kicking!
> 
> I'm sorry it took forever to update :( This chapter should never taken five months to write, and really should have been up a few months ago. But for the first half of Winter semester, between work and homework I only had about 1/2 hour to 2 hours to write per week, plus I was working on several fics at once, which meant this story was moving at a crawl. I nearly had it finished mid-way through the semester, during Reading Week (our equivalent of Spring Break), except my family and I decided to finish watching this little television show called _Breaking Bad_ and...I got a bit obsessed. And wasn't interested in writing much MCU fic. I thought it would only take a few weeks get over my feelings for that show, but...that did not happen :/
> 
> ~~(It doesn't help that Jesse Pinkman just suits my interests so _well_. He gets beat up, like, at _least_ once every season and cries so much near the end of the series. I have never seen writers that love torturing a character so repeatedly and with so much glee before. They do things to Jesse to even _I_ wouldn’t do to Loki. Even I’m not that cruel.)~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~(It _also_ doesn't help that _Breaking Bad_ is more emotionally satisfying than the MCU will ever be. Marvel can't even address Loki's Jotun heritage properly for goodness' sake.)~~
> 
>  
> 
> But! The semester is over, I am done with undergraduate school, and now I have time to obsess over _two_ fandoms! Those are marketable skills, right? And I promise I will try not to take five months on the next chapter
> 
> Lastly, on story-related business, please remember that Loki's perceptions of things and events are not entirely accurate.

“Jotunheim's royal palace and the surrounding villages were entirely destroyed, though some of the members of the royal family and nobility escaped,” Heimdall continued, his golden eyes staring unblinkingly ahead and gaze coming to rest somewhere above Odin's head. Even in Odin's workrooms, the guardian didn't lose his stiff, battle-ready posture. Or perhaps he was perturbed that Odin had asked him to leave his station and sword to meet in the palace; after revealing enough details to fill several pages of parchment, Heimdall was still ill at ease.

But the discussion Odin had planned for today was best conducted behind closed doors.

“Since the frost giants' settlements are separated by vast distances, the number of deaths was not high.” Heimdall's voice was as toneless as if he was reporting on Asgard's trade routes. “But Jotunheim has already been weakened by the Casket's absence, and the Bifrost has made it increasingly unstable. Food is even more scarce, and the Bifrost melted one of their frozen seas, raising temperatures across the planet. This might further deplete their resources, and make their realm uninhabitable for the frost giants.”

It was as much as Odin should have expected. He certainly didn't think any of the news would be good. Or easy to fix. Still, Odin had to ask, “Is there anything that can be done to counteract the melting on Jotunheim?”

“Apart from returning the Casket?” Heimdall raised an eyebrow questioningly as he met Odin's gaze, and Odin nodded. “You had best ask the Sorceress' Guild,” Heimdall answered. “They might have a solution.”

Odin sighed and leaned back in his chair. All this destruction in only a few minutes' time.

And when Odin met with the other realms' ambassadors in two days, if asked Odin would have to inform them exactly what kind of devastation Jotunheim had suffered from the Bifrost – if they didn't know already. Odin doubted the Vanir and Álfar cared what trials Jotunheim had endured, but the Dwarfs – as Jotunheim's one, meagre trading partner, despite Odin's embargo after the war – might call for reparations.

And justice.

Odin rubbed at his eye. The day was beginning to grow late, and last night had not provided much sleep. There had been too much worrying. Worrying, and arguing.

Neither he nor Frigga had returned to the feast after the Vault. Perhaps they should have, for appearance's sake, but even had they finished dealing with the fallout before the feast was over, they had long since lost their appetites.

Loki had been silent, eyes downcast as Odin, Frigga, and the two remaining Healers hurried him back to his rooms – taking less-travelled passages to keep Loki well out of sight. He didn't say a word as the Healers shuffled him to bed, nor resisted as they mixed him a sleeping draught and helped him drink it down.

He didn't even seem to notice the four Einherjar Odin had sent for, waiting at his door.

Frigga had, though. And the Healers. Odin felt their judgement settle on him, long after the Healers had turned away and Frigga had carefully covered the censure in her eyes.

They had all gathered close as Odin instructed the Einherjar, “I want two inside and two outside of Prince Loki's rooms, guarding the doors. And two Healers with him at all times.”

The Healers had looked at him askance, the younger one rubbing at tired eyes, but both bowed their heads and retreated to Loki's bedside.

Frigga had thinned her lips and said nothing.

She still kept her words to herself as Odin stalked to one of his meeting rooms, where he had ordered the Healer and two Einherjar to await punishment for allowing Loki to escape. Frigga waited as Odin berated, reprimanded, and reminded the three about duty, about the importance of Loki's safety to the realm and to their King and Queen. But when Odin had drawn himself up, about to dismiss them from service, Frigga had intervened. Drawing him aside, her fingers wrapped tighter about his wrist than they had need to be, she'd pointed out that if they punished everyone who Loki had managed to trick or deceive, most of Asgard would have been dismissed from service. “Including you and me,” she added, her smile a strained flash of teeth that was more a show for their audience than Odin.

In the end, Odin agreed.

The Healer and Einherjar had filed out, chastened. And when the two of them remained, Frigga had rounded on Odin and bit out, “You cannot order _four Einherjar_ to watch Loki. Especially not _inside his rooms_.”

“It's only until Healer Ilmr is finished,” Odin said quickly.

“Why?” Frigga's eyes narrowed. “Where did you send her off to?”

Reluctantly, Odin explained. Frigga reacted the same way she had to the wards.

“Loki needs to be _safe_ ,” Odin had argued.

“Safe or imprisoned?” she had countered, drawing herself up.

“Imprisoned would be better than _dead_ ,” he had snapped. “Imprisoned is better than being too late to stop him _the next time_ he tries something like _this_.”

In the end, Frigga agreed.

She had given in much sooner than Odin had hoped.

(A part of Odin had wanted her to persuade him out of it. To find another solution.)

Later, lying in bed next to his wife and studying the soft contours of her face in the dark, he wondered if his fears in the Vault were true:

That she had no more idea what to do than Odin.

Frigga had always been better with Loki. Even now, Loki responded to her in ways Odin could only hope for. But if they were both lost, struggling blindly forward...the possibility had chilled him to the bone.

Now, as he faced down Heimdall, Odin felt the same chill burrowing beneath his skin, despite the warmth of the fire filling his workroom until the air felt stifling – and despite the weight of Heimdall's golden eyes, waiting but unperturbed by his king's silence. Straightening in his chair, Odin returned his full attention to Heimdall and asked, “Is that all the news you have from Jotunheim?”

“Yes, that is all.” Heimdall tilted his head downwards and his eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Although I suspect I was not called from my post solely to report on Jotunheim's affairs.”

Odin nodded. “That is correct,” he answered, not the least bit surprised Heimdall guessed there was more to this conversation.

Because while Frigga had no more idea how to help calm the storms of Loki's madness, this morning she had figured out perhaps another way to help keep Loki safe.

But they needed Heimdall.

And for that, Odin needed discussions behind closed doors.

Odin waved his hand at the quill that had, up until now, been recording Heimdall's report on a stack of parchment. It froze upright before falling against the page, and with slow, deliberate movements, Odin drew back his chair and stood. Clasping his hands behind him, Odin turned his back to Heimdall and walked away from his desk, towards one of his bookshelves.

Back turned to Heimdall as if studying the titles, he said, “I take it you are completely recovered from your ordeal on the bridge? Not every Ás could survive the Casket's strength.”

“I have healed well, my king,” Heimdall answered as tonelessly as he had reported on Jotunheim. “The Healers saw to me promptly.”

“As they should have,” Odin agreed. “However, in my distraction these past few days, I have been remiss in addressing your other actions on the bridge. When Loki confronted you, I was watching in the Odinsleep. ”

In hindsight, Odin knew he should have dealt with this immediately, as soon as the Healers had reported Heimdall's return to health almost seven days past – the same day he had sent Sif and the Warriors Three to Midgard. And yet, Odin had been too busy, too absorbed by everything else to deal with this when he had hoped any confrontation unnecessary; it was a simple fact that Asgard needed Heimdall – his surveillance of the realms and his protection. So long as Heimdall remained loyal to Odin, and Loki stayed far from the Gatekeeper, Odin believed no more conflict would arise.

More than that, any punishment of Heimdall would require a trial, and a trial would mean admitting to Loki's part in it all.

But the silence could go on no longer. Odin needed more than loyalty to just himself and Asgard from Heimdall – he needed to be able to trust Heimdall. He needed to know Loki would be safe.

Odin turned, settling his eye on Heimdall, and let cold fury fill his voice. “You tried to behead my son.”

Heimdall didn't flinch, nor even blink. He only inclined his head. “Aye. I believed him guilty of high treason.”

“That is for a _king_ to decide,” Odin said sharply.

“And there was strong evidence there would be no king but _himself_ to decide,” Heimdall replied, something equally sharp in his tone. Raising his head to meet Odin's eye, he said flatly, “He had sent Sif and the Warriors Three away, who would be the ones most likely to seek out Thor. He lied to Thor about your death and his banishment, so that Thor would not seek to return. He let the Jotnar into Asgard to steal the Casket, and hid from my gaze when he went to Jotunheim to barter with Laufey.” Neither his gaze nor his voice wavered, and he only raised his chin higher as he said, “I believed him a threat to your life, Thor's life, the lives of those on Asgard, and that he was trying to usurp your throne.”

It stung to hear such accusations, especially when Odin could hardly deny how Loki's actions must have appeared. “And yet Loki was not attempting to take my throne,” Odin countered, stalking closer to Heimdall. “The only _threat_ he posed was to Jotunheim and himself. Which might have been discovered in a trial, not after his _death_.”

“Aye,” Heimdall agreed and, as Odin blinked in surprise, he abruptly fell to one knee. “Knowing of Loki's true intent,” Heimdall said, “I regret my attempt on his life and am relieved I failed.”

For a second, Odin felt unbalanced; he had never expected Heimdall to acquiesce so quickly. Regaining his composure, Odin asked, “Oh? And what would you have done, had you known what Loki truly planned?”

“Stopped him,” Heimdall said simply. “I would have restrained him and sent for the Queen and the Healers.”

“Before or after he had set the Bifrost on Jotunheim?” Odin challenged.

Confusion flickered in Heimdall's eyes, though it was gone when he answered, “Before. We are known as the Nine Realms for a reason. The loss of one would upset the Tree.”

“The loss of Jotunheim, yes,” Odin agreed, keeping his face blank. “But what of the Jotnar themselves?”

Suspicion creased Heimdall's face for a moment. “I know that the Jotnar's view of Asgard has only worsened since the war, and they have resented us since before your father's time,” he said evenly, eyes blank once more. “I know all of Jotunheim wants the Casket back. Most Jotnar would remain content with seeing Asgard brought low by the theft, and their own realm regaining its strength. Some would see war reign again. Some hate Asgard with a fury, and would see Asgard fall, and would kill you and your family without mercy – even Loki, if they did not discover what he was. That does not mean all of Jotunheim deserves to suffer for the hatred of a few.”

_And_ _ **if**_ _they did discover what Loki is?_ Odin was tempted to ask. He held his tongue as Heimdall calmly continued, back straightening more than should be possible, so that even while kneeling his presence the implacable strength it always did, “But if you are testing me to discern my feelings towards your son, you should not worry. I have not, nor will I, speak of Prince Loki's heritage unless you ask it of me. So long as you claim him as your son, I will treat him as such.”

Again, Odin was not surprised the Gatekeeper had guessed at Odin's intent. And though he searched, Odin found no resentment in Heimdall's voice, no anger in his eyes at having to treat Laufey's son as Asgard's prince – just acceptance.

It was everything Odin had hoped for. And after Heimdall's swift retaliation against Loki on the bridge, it was also something Odin had thought would take hours of arguing before Heimdall would concede.

Odin had to wonder just how much he had underestimated Asgard’s guardian. Or perhaps he underestimated the impression Loki made when he had sat silent, still, and unresponsive on Sleipnir’s back as Odin rode him to the palace under Heimdall's gaze.

So it was with relief that Odin asked, “Do you swear to all you have claimed, on your life and honour?”

“I swear,” Heimdall said, without pause.

“Good,” Odin said, and motioned for Heimdall to rise. “Because I need your help, Heimdall, for Loki’s sake. And there is no one else the queen and I can trust with this.” Odin strode over to his desk and opened a small, thin drawer – one that would have burned the hand of anyone else who tried the same, except for Frigga. From it, he withdrew the top sheet of parchment. It was crumpled and ink-stained, full of crossed-out scribbles after he and Frigga agonized over it all morning, and again over the mid-day meal.

Holding it out towards Heimdall, though he knew it was hardly necessary, Odin said, “You will search for people fitting these requirements. One would be adequate. Four would be best.”

Heimdall stared at the sheet, his eyes not moving but absorbing the information all the same. After a moment, he frowned. “I...see,” he said hesitantly. “And do you wish me to search all the Nine Realms?”

“No,” Odin said, mentally chastising himself – they had forgotten to add that specification. “Only Asgard and Vanaheim.” The ones under Odin's rule.

Heimdall's frown deepened. “I will do what I can, though it will not be quick.”

“I never expected it would be,” Odin said, letting exhaustion creep into his tone. Folding the parchment, he returned it to the drawer, shutting it tight and waiting to feel the spellwork creep back over the drawer. “That is all today, Heimdall,” he said. “Return to your post.”

With another bow of his head, Heimdall turned and walked towards the door. His hand was on the handle when Odin blurted out, “Wait.”

Heimdall stopped, and when he faced Odin again, one eyebrow was raised questioningly. “Yes, my king?”

“Do you...” Odin began, voice wavering far too much for a king. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “When you survey the realms, do you look in on Thor and Loki?”

Odin wasn't sure what made him ask that question. When he sat on the Hliðskjálf, he had still been avoiding Thor as best he could, yet when he did look, it was more of the same: Thor talking with the mortals, dining with them, walking about the tiny town; and once, he had caught Thor sitting on the tiny cot the mortals had set up for him, staring into space as he absently ran a thumb along the spine of one of the female mortal's books. And with Loki...

Today, the most Odin had seen of Loki was from the throne.

Puzzlement flickered through Heimdall's eyes before he answered the question. “While Thor is on Midgard, I have occasionally watched him to assure he remains safe. As for Loki, I normally keep my eyes and ears averted from Asgard's royal chambers.” Heimdall tilted his head, and with the slightest bit of uncertainty, he asked, “Do you wish me to look in on the princes more often?”

Odin opened his mouth. _No_ , he should have said, _No, you need not go so far_.

And yet, if Heimdall was watching over Loki, just as an extra precaution…it was not like Loki would ever know, or that he would ever feel the weight of Heimdall's gaze settling upon him – no more than he felt Odin’s gaze when he sat upon the Hliðskjálf and watched.

Except he knew what Frigga would say if he told her – that Loki needed privacy as well as safety. They had already taken too much from him. And what if he _did_ find out, after all?

_Better imprisoned than dead_ , Odin had said, but how much could he treat his son like a prisoner and still expect him to come back?

(What if he had gone too far already?)

“No, Heimdall,” Odin decided. Shaking his head, he repeated, “No, continue looking out for Thor’s safety, and for Loki...do as you normally would.”

“Yes, my king,” Heimdall agreed, unperturbed at Odin's long silence, and without another word, slipped out the door.

Odin waited for it to snap shut behind him, then sat down heavily in his chair. Staring at the desk, at the unread documents piled up, he realized he was left with a gap in his schedule; he had expected the meeting with Heimdall to last much longer.

He had time to visit Loki, if he wished. Or he could seek out Frigga, if she was not already with Loki.

Or he could simply watch Loki from the throne, and see if Loki had changed in the hours since Healer Ilmr had done what Odin asked.

Or, Odin thought as he continued staring at the papers on his desk, he could work. He was still days behind, and two different lords had complained today about his tardiness. The minutia and details of the documents were tedious, but that hardly excused him from avoiding the work.

It was a king's duty, after all.

Yet as Odin picked up an unopened missive from Alfheim, he knew it was less a ruler's obligations that drove him, and more a father's cowardice.

 

* * *

 

Loki's throat was raw from screaming. His ankles and wrists ached from wrenching at the restraints.

When he hadn't stopped trying to claw off the shackles, they had tied his wrists to the bedposts, the Einherjar holding him down while Healers secured the ropes. When he hadn't stopped thrashing and kicking, they had strung up his ankles to stop him from damaging his injured leg. They couldn't restrain his ruined foot the same way, so they had fastened a rope to his brace and suspended it from bedpost.

He could barely move, but that hadn't prevented him from trying, straining and twisting against the ropes.

He thought Mother had come in once, but he couldn’t be sure – everything since the metal clamped around his wrists was a blur. He wondered if she agreed to the shackles along with Father (because he knew Mother wouldn’t have suggested it herself.)

He knew Father hadn’t come in yet. He would have remembered that.

He knew it had been hours since the shackles when he glimpsed the pocket of stars through a small gap between the curtains, and he knew nothing had changed.

Nothing, except that his limbs were tired and his throat couldn’t make another sound.

All at once, Loki stopped screaming, and he stopped thrashing. He stopped moving altogether, except for the steep rise and fall of his chest.

As he lay there panting, Healer Kajsa leaned over him, several pale tendril of hair escaping her usually-tidy bun. _“Prince Loki?”_ she asked cautiously, like he was animal barely held back from attack, from snapping and snarling up at her. _“Will you cease trying to remove the bands?”_

Loki looked away. He didn't say anything.

_Bands_ , she called them. It was such a pretty word. Like they were bangles or bracelets, or like he wore them for show. Not _chains_ , or _shackles_ , like for a criminal.

Or a monster.

Before the _shackles_ , Loki had prepared himself for living in his cage – even with the two ever-present Healers bustling about, one always keeping Loki in sight; even with the two Einherjar just inside the entrance to his rooms, spears absent but always watching.

(As if Loki had the energy to move any further than between his rooms.)

He would live in his cage without fuss. He would give nothing more away about his heritage.

He would –

( _BE QUIET, just as Father ordered–_ )

He would learn to live with the wards until Mother thought him “well” enough to remove them.

As if after last night, he hadn't already learned his lesson, as if he hadn't had the time to mull over all his mistakes in the hours since.

He should _never_ have left his rooms, should never done something so stupid that had frightened Mother and angered Father – because Father _was_ angry, no matter what he claimed otherwise. Loki had seen it and heard it; he had _felt_ it when the Destroyer's hand wrapped around his arm and pinned him in place. Loki hadn't even noticed the Healers and Einherjar up at the top of the steps, too caught up in his own head and problems, and he'd nearly brought disaster raining down with his carelessness.

Or was there another reason Father didn't want him touching the Casket? Was he afraid of what Loki might do with it – that Loki would do the same as he had done to Heimdall on the bridge? Or was it for Mother's sake that Father didn't want him touching the Casket? Was it to save her the pain and heartbreak when she saw what her second “son” truly looked like?

And then there was Father's question, asking _why did you decide to leave your rooms without the Healer, Loki?_ , and Loki shouldn't have been so surprised. Because Loki should have known he wasn't free to roam about the palace – that he couldn't be trusted – without an _Aesir_.

“For his safety”, Mother kept saying (and maybe Mother had tried to say that to him when she came by, _if_ she had come by, to explain why she agreed to the shackles). “ _For his safety_ ” they needed to keep him locked up and quiet and silent, giving nothing away. But it wasn't really _his_ safety they were worried about.

Still, Loki couldn't stop himself from hoping that if Mother realized Loki was cooperating, not tricking the Healers or doing anything they wouldn't like, perhaps she would allow him more freedom. When Mother came by much earlier in the day, before the shackles, he even tried to listen as she spoke, although the words slipped out of his mind as soon as he heard them.

He knew he was meant to be their secret, not meant to leave or wander about on his own, lest he cause trouble. Meant to be quiet, _keep_ quiet, lest he accidentally let the secret free.

He was to stay in his cage and be _good_.

So he was good. He was quiet. He kept to his cage.

(It hardly mattered when he didn't have the energy for anything else.)

Until they put the shackles on his wrists.

The Healers' pretty bands were pretty, slim gold things, like the torque Loki usually wore about his neck when he wore court clothes–

_(When was the last time Loki had worn those clothes? Or that torque? When was the last time he had worn anything that wasn't soft and loose and baggy–)_

They were pretty, little, innocuous things, so Loki hadn't paid much attention when the three Healers crowded about him and said soothing words in soft tones that Loki only bothered to catch a word or two of. He hadn't even paid attention when they eventually grabbed his wrists gently by the sleeves, and snapped the pretty little things around his wrists.

He only began paying attention when he felt the change rupture through him.

It wasn't like the weight of the wards, where at least he could push and push and they would yield just enough. The shackles restricted his magic to a trickle. There was no give, no bend. There was just the slightest spark of magic making it through, like a dew-drop for a man dying of thirst. Like the barest dribble of air allowed through a vise around his throat. Just enough to keep him alive, but starving – _needing_ more.

At first, he wondered why they Mother and Father done it. He already said _he wouldn't do it again_. But as he screamed and thrashed and struggled against the ropes holding him down, he realized how ridiculous that sounded.

He was a monster and a liar, and had already disobeyed them twice in as many nights. They'd be fools if they let him go free again.

(A _thing_ in a cage, chained as it should be.)

He still kept screaming after that, because it meant not having to think about the emptiness inside him, where magic should have been thrumming beneath his skin.

Until he decided there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Until it hurt too much to keep going.

Now Loki remained silent, even as he heard Healer Kajsa sigh. She waited another few moments for Loki's answer, then moved to the other side of his bed. Her face entered Loki's field of vision again, her lips pressed together as she tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. Her voice less cautious this time, she asked again. _“Prince Loki, will you cease trying to remove the bands?_ ”

_No_ , Loki thought viciously. _No_ , not while the shackles choked and drowned him. Not when the heavy wards stamped onto the walls still suffocated him, not when with the shackles and wards combined, the Healers might as well keep him chained him to the bed for all the difference it made.

_Yes_ , Loki thought faintly, because after everything he'd done last night, after everything he'd done wrong, he'd only shown how much he needed them.

It wasn't as if he could take them off anyway.

It wasn't as if he _should_ take them off.

They should have done this to him much sooner.

Loki let himself go limp. He nodded up at Healer Kajsa.

She nodded back and smiled, relieved, then glanced across the room towards the door, where Loki noticed Healer Lis stood, watching them nervously. _“I'm going to remove your restraints,”_ Healer Kajsa said, and reached warily across the bed for Loki's wrist as Healer Lis strode towards the foot of the bed. Just as when they had tied him down, or when they had rubbed salve and wrapped bandages around the gashes he had gouged into his wrists, in order to untie the ropes the Healers needed to touch his skin.

Loki wished they wouldn't, but he said nothing.

One by one, the Healers loosened the ropes. Once freed, Loki let his limbs flop onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, avoiding the Healers' faces.

_“Prince Loki, you have to eat,_ ” Healer Lis said, a pleading note in her voice.

Loki blinked at the ceiling. It had been on the brink of evening when the Healers came with their pretty shackles, not long before dinner. Loki's stomach felt empty, but it was too contorted and knotted for him to really be hungry.

He was thirsty, though. His throat hurt.

They had offered him water while he thrashed on the bed, but he had refused, being worried that they had drugged it again.

If he cooperated, there would be no point in sending him to sleep now.

Loki sat up, slowly, his head swimming. The Healers smiled, and lead him into his sitting room, towards his table where a glass of water and bowl of soup waited. He drank the water slowly. The wave of dizziness that normally accompanied drugged water never hit him, so with the Healers' encouragement, he managed a few spoonfuls of soup before the broth twisted up his stomach and he pushed the bowl away.

He didn't fight as they led him to the bathing room. Healer Kasja immediately went to fill the tub, steam filling the room as Loki trailed behind Healer Lis, eyes on the back of her blue dress and wondering whether she would remove his clothes by magic, or if he would be allowed to take them off himself.

Then he stopped as he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Startled, Loki twisted his head around to see–

A mirror. His mirror, the one above the sink. In it, through the fog of steam, he saw the swish of a blue dress moving out of of view and a thin, pale man.

Loki frowned, drifting closer. With his sleeve rubbed a wide swath through the steam, until he saw dark circles underneath ( _false_ ) too-bright green eyes. They stared back at him from a ( _false_ ) pale face, surrounded by the knotted and matted tangle of black hair. The cheeks were gaunt, the body thin – thinner than usual, rather, since they always accused him of being too slim, too weak. And now his clothes hung off his frame.

_“Prince Loki,”_ Healer Lis murmured, a haze of blue behind him in the mirror.

Loki couldn't remember the last time he had looked in a mirror. He had avoided them, after talking to Father, in the Vault – he couldn't _stand_ looking at that pale, glamoured face, the green, glamoured eyes – the lie bred into his skin–

Steam clouded over the mirror once again, but he could see over-bright, _lying_ green eyes set in a pale, gaunt _lying_ face – a monster's face, steam smearing its features into an unrecognizable blur – a monster that could never do as it was told, could never learn to be like its betters. A monster that in a thousand years still hadn't learned to be _enough_ – and Loki _hated_ –

Shards of mirror glittered on the floor. Loki's knuckles bled. The Healers were frantic.

When Mother visited the next morning, she stared at the bandage around his hand, her mouth a thin, unhappy line. He watched as she ordered all the mirrors in his rooms removed or covered with sheets.

Loki closed his eyes, and pretended he was alone.

 

* * *

 

Odin couldn't remember feeling like this since the war – the strain, the stress, the sleepless nights. The knowledge that the slightest mistake could cost more than he was willing to give. Waking every morning to hear something else had gone wrong, and scrambling to find some way to fix it.

Except then, there had been one clear enemy, one clear goal.

Now, Odin felt like he was fighting a war on all fronts, with everything muddied and murky and no clear way to victory. He couldn't fight Loki and the demons in his mind, or even defend Loki to those damned ambassadors when there was nothing to excuse his son but the truth, which Odin could never tell.

Odin couldn’t even bare to face Loki.

(“You _need_ to see him,” Frigga urged, flitting into his workroom between visiting Loki and running off to consult with the Sorcesses' Guild on Odin's behalf – if she and Odin split dealing with Jotunehim’s affairs, Odin figured he might be able to scrounge up some defence in front of the ambassadors tomorrow. Reluctantly making her way towards the door, Frigga insisted, “Maybe you can get through to him where I cannot.”

Except what more could Odin do that Frigga could not? Where Frigga’s presence had always soothed, time and time again Odin had only made matters worse.)

And in today’s council meeting, there was yet another battle to fight. One that was Odin's own fault.

When Odin anticipated more bouts of gossip to erupt, he had figured it would come from the servants. While the palace’s staff knew better than to discuss the royal family to outsiders, that wouldn't stop them from talking to the royal family's other servants – perhaps ones that would normally clean Loki's rooms but not yet been allowed inside; or ones who did laundry and found none of Loki's normal fastidious clothes among the mix, but those more suited to night-wear; or even ones who made Loki's meals, which now consisted of simple protein broths.

But after the night Odin and Frigga raced from the dining hall to the Vault, they hadn't needed loose-lipped servants. It had barely been two days, and already the whole palace knew that their king and queen had broken decorum and dashed madly through Asgard's halls, all because of Loki.

Luckily, no one seemed to have gotten a glimpse of Loki when he had been taken back to his rooms, but that only fed the rumours like dry grass caught in a wildfire.

It didn't help that Odin's councillors had long suspected Loki was more than simply “ill”.

“Prince Loki's absence is thoroughly beginning to wear on the people,” Lady Freya said, shaking her head and speaking to the council table at large. “Perhaps if Prince Thor were still here, his presence might soothe worries, but without the two of them, and then with these new disturbances...” She paused, eyes flickering towards Odin, probably waiting for an explanation. When Odin was not forthcoming, she finished off smoothly, “Our people cannot help but feel uneasy about Prince Loki's condition.”

“And my son cannot help his ' _condition_ ',” Odin retorted, anger bubbling to the surface. Of all the places to deal with the rumours, he had least expected them in his _council meeting_.

And yet...Odin knew gossip could wreak as much havoc as the truth. Why, when he had been but a babe, a tale had spread that his mother Bestla had giant's blood – anywhere from a quarter, to believing she was full-Jotun; half of Asgard had been whipped into a frenzy before Bor could quash each and every falsehood.

(With Loki, letting even the most outrageous rumours run amok would be better than admitting the truth.)

Reigning in his temper, Odin continued, “The Healers are working day and night to treat him, though his outing has unfortunately worsened his ailment. We have ensured he will not defy the Healers' instructions again, which will hasten his return to health. However, the Healers can only to do much.”

“I agree, my king,” Lord _Yngvi_ said quickly, folding his hands on the polished table, “just as it is noble and patient of you to care for your son when he is in such a state. But imagine if his...antics two nights ago had happened at a less opportune moment, with others in attendance who were not your loyal subjects, or those of Vanaheim.” Raising his eyebrows, though managing to keep his tone deferential, he said, “I do not need to tell you of the upset it might have caused if you had run after him while the Álfar were present, or the Dwarves.”

Lord Njord nodded. “You and the Queen have been preoccupied of late. As a father myself, I know how one's heart can be torn when something terrible befalls their children. But Asgard cannot abide by your continued distraction. The other realms will hear of it soon, if they have not already. With both your sons absent and the recent incident concerning the Bifrost, they will believe we have lost control of our kingdom. Think of what would happen if word found its way to Muspelheim – the Eldjontar may think it high time to rise up again, and with allies.”

There were murmurs of agreement around the room, and Odin knew what they meant, though they would never say frankly: the king could not act like a nursemaid to his adult son.

And Odin knew full well he couldn't. Odin knew how it looked, for the king to go haring off at the slightest moment with no explanation. If it was just Frigga running after Loki, perhaps they would give her more leeway, but for Odin...

The king could not afford the same luxuries.

(Or perhaps it was a pattern Odin had fallen into, a precedent he had set, and now the realm expected more.)

Odin drew himself up. “Loki's health is currently in a fragile state, and the Healers believe he needs his family around him. The queen and I must attend him if we can, to guarantee his return to strength,” Odin said, absolute, unwavering confidence in his voice.

“But Allfather,” Frey interjected, “it has been nearly eleven days since the Jotnar invaded and Prince Loki fell...ill.” He hesitated, then glanced at Lord Yngvi before asking, “Are you certain Asgard's Healers are capable of properly treating him?”

Odin sat back in his chair and regarded the man. Flatly, he said, “What are you implying, Lord Frey.”

Frey cleared his throat, licking his lips while his glances at Lord Yngvi grew more obvious until Yngvi took over from poor, nervous Frey. “We all know that Vanaheim is much more specialized in the arts of Healing, even illnesses of the mind,” Yngvi said, and all eyes turned to Odin, waiting to see how he would react to Yngvi's supposition – Odin had never once mentioned Loki's illness was anything but confined to his body. As with Freya, Odin kept his face blank, and Yngvi resumed his speech.

“Queen Frigga's family still holds power there. I am sure they would be delighted to aid their kin and give him shelter in his time of need. In fact–” Yngvi paused as he reached into his robe, withdrawing a bundle of papers, and a flicker of alarm ran through Odin at their sight. “I've been in correspondence with one of Queen Gullveig's top Healers, and she would be honoured to look after Asgard's prince, whatever his affliction.”

Yngvi passed the bundle across the table, and Odin snatched them up, nearly tearing one of the papers. “How much have you told her?” he demanded, rifling through the pages. If Yngvi had revealed too much, then Norns help the man–

“Only what she likely already knows, my king – that the prince is ill, and may require special attention,” Yngvi said, ducking his head. “And the Healer knows how to keep the royal family's secrets – Prince Loki is Queen Gullveig's nephew, after all. She and those she trusts could look after him in Vanaheim, and give him the treatment our Healers cannot.”

Heads nodded around the room. Njord was giving Yngvi an appreciative smile, Freya was whispering conspiratorially with her brother, and Idunn began regaling Forseti with tales she'd heard of the skills of Vanaheim's Healers.

Odin's first reaction was to roar, _No, no,_ y _ou doddering old_ _ **fools**_ _. My son is suffering and you wish for me to send him away? Because he's a_ _ **distraction**_ _?_

Yet before the words could reach his lips, he remembered watching from the Hliðskjálf when the bands were locked in place around Loki's wrists, and seeing the fear and the anger that had transformed Loki's features. He remembered Frigga from a few hours before, face weary, as she told him Loki had yet to speak with her since the Vault. He remembered the Healer that had arrived at their door in the morning, her face pinched and regretful, as she informed them what Loki had done late last night.

When Odin stayed silent, Yngvi leaned forward over the table and said, “The prince may be better off with those specialized in his types of illness, and the people need to see you and your family strong in this time of confusion. With Loki as he is now, he only brings disquiet.”

“People should not witness Laufey's slayer in such a state,” Lord Dellingr concurred.

Odin whipped his head around to frown at Dellingr _._ _Laufey's slayer?_ When had _that_ become one of Loki's epithets?

Before Odin could react, Tyr argued, “And what if Vanaheim has nothing to offer the boy? Are their ambassadors not among those looking to accuse him? Would not the prince be safer here?” Tyr crossed his arms, giving Yngvi a disgruntled look. “We shouldn't send away Laufey's slayer like he _shames_ us.”

There were murmurs of agreement about the room, though much quieter than after Yngvi's proclamation. Mutters started up again, councillors dissecting each options with varying degrees of self-righteous posturing.

Odin had long stopped listening.

He remembered the last time he had thought of sending Loki away, in another council meeting, back when Loki still remained in his stupor. So much had changed in the past few days.

And so much hadn’t.

Odin didn't believe in the slightest that the Vanir would try to harm Loki, as Tyr insisted. Could Loki be safer there, without the Casket or the Bifrost to tempt him, away from all those prying eyes and gossipers? Could the Vanir help even if they never knew the truth? Perhaps it would be for the best, after all, if Odin brought him to Vanaheim, with their specialized Healing Houses where, as a prince, Loki would have one to himself and all the Healers he required.

What if the Vanir could heal Loki as Asgard and Odin and Frigga could not?

Two days ago, it had been an escape from his rooms in what was probably another attempt to take his own life. Yesterday, it was punching through a mirror for reasons Odin dreaded to think about. What would it be today? Tomorrow?

How long could this go on?

How long could Odin keep making mistake after mistake, a war on all fronts and no way through?

How long could he and Frigga last floundering around in the dark?

Shaking himself from his reverie, Odin straightened and cleared his throat, glancing from council member to council member until they all quieted. “Thank-you for your proposals,” he said. “I will think on your suggestions, and discuss with the queen and the Healers the best possible solution for my son.” Pocketing Yngvi's letters to peruse them later – better to be safe than sorry – he asked, “Are there any other matters to be attended to?”

After a short pause, Lord Bragi announced, “Yes, there is. About the proposed expansion of the city's library, I have some suggestions for the council...”

Odin sat back as Bragi's voice washed over him, and tried to ignore the doubts clamouring at his mind.

 

* * *

 

Loki stared at his bookshelf.

Today, the Healers decided to let him pick out which book he wanted to read. Or rather, which book he wanted to stare at blankly until they took it away again.

Healer Ilmr puttered around somewhere in Loki's bedroom, probably changing his sheets since there were no servants around to do it. Healer Haldis fluttered about his rooms, never too close but never too far, eyes always coming back to Loki.

The two Einherjar were missing today. Maybe Father and Mother decided he didn't need them with the shackles on.

The metal around his wrists was warm, fitting just as snugly as the brace around his leg.

His body felt pulled tight, ready to snap. He felt too empty, like the slightest breeze could carry him away, and he would dissipate like mist. He felt too heavy, like the wards and the shackles weighed him down and held him fast to the floor. The still-healing scrapes on his knuckles itched, though the Healers had taken off the bandage.

Loki stared at his bookshelf.

Occasionally, his gaze roamed over the shelves. Top to bottom, and up again. Left to right, and back across.

He wondered how long he was allowed to take before the Healers chose for him.

Loki stared at his bookshelf.

His gaze was wandering right to left, meandering across out-of-focus titles and blocks of colour. He wasn't sure what changed this time – maybe the angle of the light, maybe he had unconsciously shifted just enough to the side, maybe he simply didn't spot it before. But this time when his gaze drifted over the shelves, there on the second row on the left side, in the shadow between a treatise on magic and the history of cave structures on Alfheim, a word caught his eye.

Loki stared at it. It was a worn word in a worn title, once heavily glossed black and now faded to grey, embossed on the side of a worn red book.

Loki snatched up the book. Tucking it underneath his arm, his gaze flitted over the shelves, zipping back and forth, searching not just for the word but–

A heavy blue book on the top shelf joined the red one, then a stout, heavily-thumbed black one on the far right side. Loki grappled to wrench out a flashy gold book stuck between another two, before stumping to his second bookcase and seizing another two in quick succession, stacking them precariously in his arms until the pile felt just about ready to topple.

Deciding he couldn't fit any more, Loki spun and limped towards his table, dropping the books onto it as he sat. They were books that he rarely had an interest in, that he rarely had a reason to look at these days – history books, geography books, an anthology–

And the worn red book with the worn grey word:

_Jotnar_.

_The Tale of Axel, Ebba and the Jotnar._

His nursemaids used to read him that tale.

His fingers lingered on the title, but instead of cracking it open he reached for the others, flipping through their pages until he found it: in the geography book, a map of Jotunheim; in the anthology, a description of frost giants; in the history book, a chronicle of Yggdrasil and the defeat of Ymir the Jotun; in the other, an account of the war with Jotunheim.

He knew what he would find in each.

Blurred words swan into focus as his eyes skated from book to book.

_“A cold, barren, and frozen wasteland that stands as a staunch opposite to the warm golden glow of Asgard, Jotunheim comprises a cruel and heartless terrain – much like the creatures that inhabit it – all with a malevolent intent underneath–”_

_“The beasts of Jotunheim – named the Jotnar – are primitive creatures, with little understanding of the civilized concepts that–”_

Written beside shadowed figured that dwarfed golden Asgard glimmering next to it: _“Ymir, the first and most malicious of the Jotnar, could not be defeated through regular means–”_

Below a painting of a snowy landscape, filled with human figures frozen mid-scream in waves of ice and behind them, a blue creature holding a glowing blue box: _“Without mercy or honour, the monstrous frost giants invaded the defenceless realm of Midgard, using the Casket of Ancient Winters to freeze the land and the people. Lead by Laufey, a ruthless and cruel king_ – _”_

Loki flinched. He let the page fall. He reached for the last book, the worn red storybook, and when he cracked open its pages, beneath a picture of two hulking figures with razor sharp teeth and glowing red eyes it read, _“Brave little Axel and nimble little Ebba ran and hid as the monsters roared, 'Where is our dinner?' The monsters gnashed their teeth and bellowed in rage, for they enjoyed little_ _Æsir children–_ _”_

A shadow fell over the table. Voice eager, Healer Haldis said, _“What are you reading, Prince L – oh!”_

Loki looked up in time to see Healer Haldis' bright, cheery smile fall as surprise crossed her face. Surprise melded into confusion, her eyes flitting from Loki to the jumble of books and back again. As Loki tried to huddle over the storybook, as if that could hide all the pictures and words he had left in plain sight, an array of emotions played through her eyes – first a flash of understanding and a terrible pity, until puzzlement overtook her expression once more.

Worry pooled low in Loki's stomach as finally a strange look settled over Healer Haldis' features. Was she figuring it out? Was she putting it together with the night in the Vault and Loki's thoughtless words? And all this after Loki promised himself he would be careful, after Father's wrath and Mother's panic, and now he had _stupidly_ given it away–

(But would it be so bad if she knew? Because if they all knew, then Loki wouldn't have to live in this cage anymore. They would demand their freedom from his bedside, along with his head.)

(What if he just told her? What if he pointed to the monster holding the Casket in the history book, and told her _I am Laufey's son_ –)

The doors to Loki's rooms swung open.

Loki snapped his head up at the same time Healer Haldis spun around to watch Mother slip in the entrance. She looked at Loki, her usual sad smile in place with her usual tired eyes. Then her gaze fell on the pile of books.

Her smile grew until it looked real and she beamed, while guilt replaced the worry gnawing at Loki's chest. He felt cold all over.

Giving a quick nod to Healer Haldis and towards Loki’s bedroom, where Healer Ilmr must have appeared, Mother strode over to the table. Still smiling brightly, she said, “Loki, I have some good news for you. I just returned from some business in the city, and on my way here, your friends–”

Mother reached the table, close enough to see what was in the books, and her eyes went wide.

She slammed the storybook shut before Loki could. Eyes hard, she stared at Healer Haldis, who bit her lip and couldn't meet Mother's glare.

Loki looked down at his lap. Nausea churned in his stomach.

“Leave us,” Mother ordered sharply, and Loki heard the Healers hurry past him, heard the door to his rooms creak open, and heard them click shut.

Only then did Mother reach for the other books, closing the thin gold book first. Reaching for the black one, she sighed, “Loki, these books are not...you shouldn't read them.” Setting the black book atop the gold, she reached for the blue one, the one about the war with Midgard ( _about Laufey_ ), and Loki heard her sharp intake of breath. Her hand flinched back, before she reached forward and quickly slammed it shut. Adding it to the pile, Mother said firmly, “These books are simply not _correct_.”

Loki didn't see how that could be possible. He was sure at least three of those books were taught all across Asgard.

They had been taught to Loki.

He watched as Mother's hands flitted around the table, shutting the rest of the books and stacking them up until they were as innocuous as they had been in Loki's bookcase. Then she sighed again, and moved next to his chair. Crouching, she said, “Loki. Loki, look at me please.”

Loki did as she asked. Mother's brightness had vanished, leaving behind tired lines on her face and grief in her eyes. Softly, she said, “The people who wrote these books...most have never met a Jotun in their life. They don't – what you see in these books, what they've written about the Jotnar...it's guesswork.” She put her hand on the armrest of Loki's chair, close to him, but not close enough to touch. “It has no bearing on who you are.”

_And the one about Ymir? About the war with Midgard?_ Loki wanted to ask.

_The ones about_ _**Laufey?** _

He stayed quiet, and nodded.

Mother seemed pleased.

“I’ll get you other books to read,” she promised, trying to smile, though it was worse than her usual attempts, strained and pinched in all the wrong places.

She stood, resting a hand on top of the stack of books, as if to prevent Loki from stealing them back. Her tone full of false cheer, she said, “I wanted to tell you, I ran into your friends on the way here – Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun. They were asking about you. They want to come see you. Volstagg was here before, although you probably don't remember…” Mother swallowed, glancing away briefly, though when she turned back the forced cheer was solidly in place. “Would you like to see them too?” Mother set one of her hands down close to his.

Close to one of his shackles.

Loki wondered how quickly she had agreed to them.

He put both his hands in his lap, far from Mother's reach.

When sadness cut through Mother at the movement, pain flashing in her eyes and her parted lips, Loki instantly wanted to take it back. But it was too late, and Mother was already trying to cover her hurt, gesturing down to his folded hands and whispering, “I'm sorry. I know how much you must hate the...these _things_. And the wards. When you went to the vault, though, we...you _scared_ us, Loki. We were so frightened of what you might do.”

Loki couldn't face the sorrow in her gaze or the misplaced worry in her voice, and while he couldn't shut out one, he stared down at the polished surface of the table to avoid the other.

He could guess at what had frightened Mother that night. He wasn't so sure it was the same thing that had frightened Father.

Mother shifted, and Loki could almost see her beginning to reach out like she always did, to brush her hand across his shoulder or smooth down his hair, but the touch never came. “After what happened on the Bifrost,” she said softly instead, “you have to understand – we are trying to help you. We do not want to see you hurt.”

Loki closed his eyes.

There it was – the reason behind it, although not in the same words as before: for his _safety_

(It hardly mattered the excuse. He deserved the shackles.)

Just as he had that night in the Vault, Loki nodded. There would be no point in arguing.

Mother did not reply, and when Loki finally peeled open his eyes, she was staring at the stack of books with her gaze unfocused, looking no more satisfied by Loki's answer than Loki had been by her's. After a long silence, she asked, “Have you decided if you wish to see your friends?” Her weary eyes met his. “It's alright if you don't want to. I can still pass along anything you have to say to them, if you would prefer.”

Loki swallowed. _“Do they know?”_ he asked, voice hoarse. It was the first he'd spoken since screaming.

Mother pursed her lips. Loki knew the answer before she said it. “No. And they don't know about your leg either. They worry about you, though. Volstagg was wringing his hands quite fiercely, and Sif seemed about ready to bash down your door.” Her mouth quirked, an attempt at a genuine smile

Loki thought Sif would bash down his door for an entirely different reason if she knew what he was.

When Loki still said nothing and the silence stretched on and on, Mother sighed a third time. “I will tell them you are not well enough for visitors,” she said, and reached for the pile of books. Balancing them carefully in her arms, she walked to the door, and managed to open it one-handed. “Take these away, and others like them,” she ordered the waiting Healers, passing the stack along.

And Loki felt empty again.

It didn't matter that he wasn't sure he truly want to read the books, or that he didn't exactly know why he had taken them down in the first place.

It was just something else taken from him.

Because he couldn't be trusted.

( _Who could trust a_ _ **thing**_ _?_ )

( _Who could trust a monster?_ _ **Laufey's**_ _son?)_

 

* * *

 

From their bedroom's doorway, Odin watched while Frigga unwound her hair from its coif. It fell down her back in wave after wave of golden red as she grabbed her brush. Just as she did every night, she leisurely brushed out the tresses, seated at her desk and facing her mirrors.

Moving out from underneath the door frame, Odin crossed the room towards her, noticing a slight unsteadiness in his step as he did. At dinner, Odin had downed four cups of wine. He'd gone for a fifth when Frigga placed her hand over his glass, silently shaking her head. Looking back on it, Odin was surprised she'd let him get away with four in the first place. Even hours later, nightwear donned and the palace quiet, the alcohol sloshed uneasily in his stomach.

With halting steps, Odin settled himself between Frigga and the bed so that he could see her in the mirror. Still, his eye ended up following the movement of Frigga's brush as he said, “In the council meeting today, they spoke of Loki, and...” Odin hesitated. He knew he had to tell her sooner or later – had in fact been working up to it all evening – but perhaps it was best to start small first. “And do you know what they're calling him now? _'Laufey's slayer.'_ ” The words felt just as strange now as when Dellingr first said them.

Frigga didn't stop brushing. “Yes, I've heard,” she said.

“You did?” Odin glanced up at her reflection. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn't know if you had heard or not,” Frigga said, meeting his eye in the mirror. “And if you hadn't heard, then I saw no reason in giving you anything else to worry about.”

Odin shook his head. “It's not so much worry as...”

“Distaste?” Frigga suggested, raising her eyebrows.

“Unease,” Odin decided on, though he still wasn't entirely sure what he felt, nor why. Suddenly unable to stay still, Odin shot to his feet, shaking off the slight dizziness as he paced along the length of the room. “It...it is simply not right,” he muttered, for he knew that was part of it. “No one should be known with such pride as the man who murdered his kin. His own _father_.” No matter how little that kinship had meant to Laufey in the first place.

“That man _was not_ Loki's father _,_ ” Frigga spat out. The vehemence in her voice surprised Odin, yet when he whirled around to face her, he could only see the back of her head. Neither the easy, fluid movements of her brush nor the sharpness of her voice changed as she said, “And no matter what they say, we can hardly stop them from spreading that name without telling the truth.”

For a moment, Odin watched her, the frustration he knew simmered beneath her restraint, and wondered how much had to do with Loki and much had to do with Laufey.

Odin supposed he could ask the same about himself, though it was more directed at the council than his old enemy.

How _proud_ would the council have been if Loki had destroyed Jotunheim entirely? Would Odin hear cries of _Loki Jotun-slayer?_

(If they knew the truth, would they still laud him so?)

(Would they only praise him if he had fallen with Jotunheim?)

A shuddering sensation wracked his body, and at the heart of it, Odin had to wonder if this unease was all because he didn't want Loki's madness to be proven right.

As abruptly as it had come, Odin's bout of energy left him. He dragged himself over the bed, blankets rustling and springs creaking as he sat. “Yes, I know we cannot stop them from talking,” Odin agreed softly, trying to put the issue out of his head. He could fret at Loki's new “title” later, mull it over at his discretion; there were pertinent matters at hand – matters that Frigga had best hear from Odin first.

Mouth inexplicably dry, Odin swallowed, and looked up to face Frigga, though from his new position he could still see little more than her waves of her hair. “There was something else the council spoke of today. Concerning Loki,” Odin said carefully. “They...they suggested sending Loki to Vanaheim. Under the care of your sister and her Healers.”

Odin watched as the movement of the brush stuttered, yet did not cease. Nor did Frigga answer. When the silence remained unbroken, Odin drew in a deep breath, and quietly, guiltily, he admitted, “I...I wonder if it's for the best.”

There was no explosion of anger, as had Odin expected. No rage, no tensing of her shoulders, or tightening of her fingers around her brush. In fact, her movements only slowed.

“This is where you're supposed to say no,” Odin said, half-teasing, though his tone fell flat.

At last, Frigga stopped. She pulled the brush from her hair and set it down on her table, bowing her head.

“I don't know, Odin,” she breathed. “I don't know what to do anymore.”

At last Frigga turned, carrying a defeated expression that did not belong on his wife's face. “I don't know what he's feeling, I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't know if _any_ on Asgard can help him,” she said, the words tumbling out of her. “And I know how much he must _hate_ the bands and the wards, but I'm not as blind as to think he was taking the Casket for anything less than to harm himself again.”

Odin stared at the gleam of tears in his wife's eyes, the quiet desperation. Of course he had known Frigga was struggling since the Vault, and since she had agreed to the bands. But for all he had feared the worst, he still kept believing she would have a plan, some way of going forward – something more than _surrendering_.

“And yet...” Frigga whispered as Odin was still reeling, her hands clenched and staring distantly at the closed drapes. “And yet sending him to my sister may do more harm than good, in the end.”

“You mean from the separation?” Odin asked, fiercely hoping this meant she had not yet given up.

“Not just that. We don't know what Loki might _tell_ them.” Frigga stood, her nightgown whispering as she walked over to the bed and sat beside Odin. Taking his hand, she said, “You remember at dinner, I told you about those books Loki was reading?” Odin nodded, recalling his irritation that there was one more thing he should have taken care of before it became a problem. It seemed he was always too late to help.

“I didn't tell you then,” Frigga continued, “but Healers Haldis saw the books too, and I'm worried she may believe there is something more going on. After everything the Healers heard at the Vault, if they start talking...they may begin to grow suspicious. So how would we stop Loki from admitting the truth on Vanaheim, if we can barely stop him here?”

Odin pressed his lips together, a jolt of worry settling itself somewhere deep in his stomach. One more difficulty, heaped on top of the rest, although it hardly came as any surprise after the Vault. “If you stayed with him, until Heimdall can–”

Frigga's head jerked up, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing. “You're not the only one behind in their duties, Odin,” she snapped. “I cannot be with Loki _every minute_ of _every day_ and still help you run _our_ kingdom.” Then just as quickly, her shoulders slumped and she looked away, the fight going out of her. Bitterly, she said, “We are falling behind, and the council knows it. Everyone knows it. They smell blood in the water, and they won't let it go on this way.”

Turning to back Odin and leaning in towards him, Frigga said, “Odin, we need _Thor_. We need him as a prince and Loki needs him as a brother. _I_ need him as a _son_ , and even if you do not, then surely you agree with the rest.”

There was a challenge in her expression to match the bite to her words, and Odin found he did not need to think on either for long. If Frigga needed him, if she truly believed Loki needed him...

And Odin supposed he...he did miss Thor as well. Whether Thor acted like the king he should have been or not, Odin missed Thor's booming presence in the palace, the pride Odin felt as he watched Thor in the training ring and his warrior's spirit shining through in every battle, even butting heads against him in the hopes that Thor might learn something. He missed his son.

(He missed both of them.)

“I will not return Thor Mjolnir,” Odin cautioned. “But in two days time, when I return to him his power, I can...perhaps see if he is ready to return here, at least.” Tomorrow would be the ninth day after Odin's decree. The next morrow, on the tenth day, Odin would travel to Midgard and see Thor at long last.

“He will be ready, for Mjolnir and Asgard both,” Frigga promised, and Odin wondered where she found such hope. In the past few days, Odin had seen little change in Thor since the morning the mortals delivered the boxes to Thor's human friends. Thor was quiet, helpful, and kind to his new mortal allies, but nothing that spoke of _worthy_.

Frigga moved to her side of the bed and began to settle under the covers, before Odin followed suit. He had just lain his head against the pillow, when Frigga grabbed his hand beneath the covers.

“And Odin,” Frigga said. She waited until Odin rolled over to face her before speaking again. “Please, go see Loki. We can see him together, if you wish, but after the wards and the bands, avoiding him will not help either of you.”

Odin knew he should agree straight away. Any good father would. And yet the words that next came out of his mouth in a whisper were, “And if I make it worse?”

_Again_ , he left off.

Frigga remained silent for a moment, her eyes searching his. Whatever she saw, it must have been enough for her to understand, for she squeezed his hand and said, “Then we'll simply have to try something else.”

Odin heart trembled in his chest, though still he nodded. “I'll see him,” he promised. “The day I meet Thor, I...I will see him.”

Frigga smiled, the relief on her face stark against her earlier tension, before she waved her hand, extinguishing the hearth-fire and sending the room into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information from one of Loki's books on Jotunheim comes from the Thor artbook, with some scans found [here](http://myelinating-the-feels.tumblr.com/post/73292050150/ayonoi-from-the-art-of-thor-paperback).
> 
> The reason why Heimdall is only appearing now, is because he was honestly supposed to appear earlier, but there wasn't an appropriate opportunity for Odin to talk to him, so this was delayed. I also belatedly realized that in this continuity, since Heimdall didn't sent Sif and the Warriors Three down to Earth and Loki wasn't about to send the Destory down either, Loki might not have tried to dismiss Heimdall from service, and so Heimdall might not have tried to take off his head. Unfortunately I already wrote that that happened in the beginning of the first chapter, so now I have to deal with that.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to add this note earlier, but concerning the rumour about Bestla being a giant: with what we know about the MCU so far, I don't think Bestla could have been a full-blooded giant like she is in the myths and comics. It wouldn't fit in with the extreme racism of Asgard, especially because that would mean Odin is a half-giant and Thor a quarter-giant. And if Odin was half-Jotun, then Loki would have hardly had the incredibly spectacular breakdown that he did (either that or Bestla's race was one of the best kept secrets in Asgard, to the point where even Odin may not know).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I told myself I could get this out in May. Then June sometime. I finally resigned myself to July, over a year since my last update -_- I'm sorry this is taking forever. I have discovered that doing a graduate and trying to regularly write fan fiction is not easy.
> 
> In this chapter, we encounter more politics. And also some fantasy racism and imperialism, as usual.

 

“...and while Jotunheim's rising temperatures may have the most serious impact overall, an ample number of our sorceresses can contribute their aid to resolve the crisis within a decade at most,” Odin said, succinctly wrapping up his last point. Even so, it had taken nearly an hour for Odin to touch upon all the damage Heimdall had reported and relay it to the three ambassadors gathered before him. That included suggesting how Asgard could feasibly deal with the destruction, to make moves towards reparations if not towards justice.

Kvasir, the lanky Vanir ambassador, nodded along. Just as he had through most of the meeting. Irpa and Volunder, the Dwarf and Álfar ambassadors, sat motionless and waited – the Álfar stone-faced, and the Dwarf with a frown upon her brow. Just as they had through most of the meeting.

Under other circumstances, Odin would have sent a representative to speak to the ambassadors on his behalf, rather than deign to discuss the reparations himself. Or he would have brought the majority of the council to back him and bludgeon their way through the details.

But these were not other circumstances. The ambassadors would see Odin's absence as either a refusal to take their grievances seriously, or as cowardice in face of any accusations they might make. If Odin brought his council to bear, the ambassadors would either react in turn, or believe he had something to hide.

Which Odin did. But he'd had millenia of practice to perfect those lies, and he didn't mean to divulge them now.

“These are, of course, our preliminary findings on the short notice you gave for this meeting,” Odin continued, inclining his head towards them, which wasn't meant to soften his implicit reproach. If they took issue with his plans, Odin could simply turn the blame on them for his lack of preparation. “Options will be further discussed and determined by our council – with input from Jotunheim, if they so wish.” Odin would have to send an envoy as soon as they settled on a proper compensation, and offer Jotunheim what Asgard was willing to give. “We will also deal with the matter of weregild, taking into consideration, of course, the declaration of war and King Laufey's attempt on my life,” Odin finished.

Kvasir smiled. “Of course,” the Vanir said, “with Jotunheim's aggression–”

“And what of trade?” Irpa interrupted. It was far from her first time, being the only one to contend with Odin’s points at all throughout his speech. Her accompanying glare rarely faltered, either. “You have not mentioned trade yet, King Odin. Will you release the embargo you set upon Jotunheim after the war?”

Meeting the Dwarf's heated gaze, Odin answered truthfully, “It will, of course, be taken into account.” Odin had not thought of reopening the trade routes, but he supposed it might be time. Especially now, with Jotunheim so weakened, any aid the other realms could deliver would be welcome. That is, if any realm other than Niðavellir chose to deliver it.

The Dwarfs had always been closer to the giants than the other realms – not as intertwined as Vanaheim and Asgard, nor even as much as Jotunheim and Muspelheim. But trade had been common and welcome between Nidavellir and Jotunheim long before the war. And, if the reports from Nidavellir were to be believed, the trade remained lively despite the embargo.

None of the heat drained from Irpa's eyes, but at least her stiff nod could be considered agreement.

“If we are to return to the matter at hand,” Kvasir said, giving Irpa a brief, distasteful look. “On behalf of Queen Gullveig and the people of Vanaheim,” he began, “I thank you for your–”

“You have not yet addressed the most important matter, King Odin,” Volundr spoke up. So far, the Álfar ambassador had remained silent, almost bored, throughout the meeting.

“And what is that?” Odin asked carefully. Out of the three of them, the Álfar had always been the hardest to read.

Volundr spread his arms wide. “Why the destruction happened at all, of course.”

The room stilled. Kvasir glanced nervously between Odin and Volundr, while Irpa's eyes burned with intensity as she stared Odin down. Only Volundr remained unperturbed.

Odin did his best to look the same. With a hint of annoyance, he said, “As I have told you before, those matters are still under investigation–”

“You can't keep hiding behind that _damned lie_ ,” Irpa snarled.

Odin narrowed his eye. “Excuse me, Ambassador Irpa–”

The Dwarf banged her fist on the table. “We all know what you're avoiding admitting to, Allfather. It was _your_ Prince Loki that turned the Bifrost on Jotunheim, was it not?”

Silence followed her outburst. The meeting was spiralling out of Odin's control, and Odin struggled to keep his expression from doing the same. Dragging a cold anger to the surface, Odin snapped, “Those are serious allegations, ambassador.”

“What proof do you have that all of Asgard does not?” Kvasir demanded.

Irpa matched Kvasir glare for glare. “From what I've gathered, Prince Loki went down to the Bifrost. Then it was turned on Jotunheim. King Odin then went down to Bifrost, and it was switched off.” Her eyes settled on Odin, unwavering. “So unless the Bifrost itself is malfunctioning, or your Gatekeeper committed unwarranted destruction, the chain of events seem clear to me. If the Bifrost was turned on Jotunheim with the intent destroy it, we all know what the punishment is.”

_Execution_ , she left unsaid.

Fear calcified in Odin's stomach. Sweat pricked his palms, and his mouth ran dry. He only allowed a low current of fury in his voice as he growled, “You must have misheard, ambassador, since even Asgard is searching for details. I will _not_ abide by these allegation, especially when they based on hearsay and rumours.”

“Once Asgard has discovered the full story, I'm sure a quick hearing will clear things up,” Kvasir added calmly.

Irpa turned her rage on him. “You've heard of the destruction on Jotunheim. Those spared will die anyway, thanks to Asgard's interference when they removed the Casket. It should be a trial, like any other.”

“I believe, as I have stated before–” Volundr silky voice cut in, bored as ever, “–the real matter here is _why_ , Allfather. Because if the _why_ stems from the war, then the rest of us have to wonder, what might we face if we decide we disagree with Asgard?”

Under the table, Odin's hands balled into fists. “Is that a threat, ambassador?”

“No Allfather,” Volundr said, the silkiness vanishing from his voice, “but your Bifrost is. It's a threat to all the realms who sit below your mighty, golden Asgard, and what happens if we toe the line. Queen Alflyse is quite concerned about where it might point next, just as I think the Dwarf King Hreiðmarr and the Vanir separatists are.Because if this is your response, then I do not believe the rest if the realms will settle for it.” Volundr leaned forward, silver-grey eyes glinting. “And that, Allfather, is why we must ask ‘ _why?’_ ”

Permitting nothing on his face but cold command, Odin said dismissively, “You assume much, Volundr. Such as the fact that we know who did it, and this ‘why’ you are after.”

Irpa snorted. “I find that highly unlikely by now.”

Ignoring her, Volundr gave a tight smile. “I only ask because we can never be too careful. We all know the difference between turning the Bifrost on the giant's ilk, and doing the same to one of the more civilized realms.”

Irpa's face darkened with rage, but it was Kvasir who spoke first

“As I have suggested,” the Vanir said quietly, “once Asgard knows the details behind the attack, nothing more than a quick hearing is needed to settle it.”

Odin nodded. He unclenched the jaw, and relaxed his shaking fists. “Once we have learned more about the situation, then yes,” he agreed, sickness pooling low in his stomach, “a quick hearing will be more than enough.”

He dismissed the ambassadors before his control could slip.

 

_* * *_

 

Scarcely an hour after the meeting, Frigga rushed into his office, demanding the news. As he told her, her expression became grave even as desperation lit her eyes.

“Tell me you have something to appease them,” she demanded, stalking about his office with a restless energy Odin rarely saw in her these days. “Some deal, or plan, or – or restrictions on the Bifrost. Might that satisfy them?”

“I...” Odin hesitated, wondering how much he wanted to leave out for Frigga's sake. The look she shot his way convinced him otherwise. “The Vanir would be, and maybe the Álfar. But the Dwarfs will still push for a trial, and that may sway some of the others.”

Frigga's face was like stone. “I will speak to Kvasir once again. And write to my sister. We will find a way to settle this without putting Loki on trial.” She marched off, determined to avert disaster.

Odin admired her will, as hopeless as he knew the situation was.

Asgard had to answer for Jotunheim's destruction, and unless Odin found a suitable scapegoat for execution – an idea Frigga would turn down in an instant – Odin would be forced to give into the other realms' demands. A trial would be all but unavoidable.

And Odin did not like his, or Loki's, odds with a trial.

The ambassadors' words consumed him, and he all but drifted through the day, forcing himself to concentrate through the rest of his meetings and duties.

He knew, of course, Loki must be held accountable for his crimes. If Odin did not do it himself, the other realms would grow restless and angry. Even if Odin managed to convince the court that execution was not the answer, Loki wouldn't be able to escape punishment entirely.

And if Odin carried out whatever justice the other realms found acceptable, he may very well lose his son anyway.

How could he enact punishment in a way that Loki would _understand?_ In a way that wouldn't feed into his madness, and fuel the fantasy that Odin had _ever_ wanted him to hurt?

And yet...if Loki were truly mad, how much responsibility did he hold for his crimes? Loki was still a traitor for the first time he let the Jotnar into Asgard. But when had madness seeped into his thoughts? Was it only at the instant he guessed his true heritage? Or had it been brewing long beforehand?

Odin's thoughts ran circles around his head long into the evening meal, which he shared almost in silence with Frigga, the two of them lost in their own private despair. Frigga only spoke to tell Odin of her visit to Loki's room. He had been little better than yesterday, listless and subdued, but at least there had been no further incidents.

“You should see him, Odin,” Frigga said quietly.

“I will,” he promised. “As I told you, tomorrow.”

When Odin excused himself early, Frigga did little more than nod absentmindedly.

He wandered the halls, hoping the movement would help his thoughts flow easier than sitting and stewing in his office.

The problem always came back to the other realms, and how they would respond.

If pressed, Odin could always meet with them in private, and confess that the destruction had been at Loki's hand. He could easily answer the Álfar ambassador's “ _Why”_ – hatred and fear. Odin wouldn't even have to stretch the truth too far: he could blame Loki's hatred of the frost giants, his hatred of Laufey, and his fear when Odin had nearly died at Jotun king's hand, all of it spurring Loki to the Bifrost. Not to destroy, Odin would reassure them, but to teach a lesson.

The Vanir and Álfar would nod and agree that yes, the Jotnar deserved a sharp lesson. Whether fire or frost, the giants had no friends in either Queen Gullveig's or Queen Alfyse's realm. So long as it was hatred of the Jotnar, and nothing more, that drew the Bifrost's destruction, they would abide.

The Dwarfs would still call for justice. No, if that was Odin's answer, they would _demand_ it.

And Asgard...

Odin knew what they would do in Asgard. They would cheer across the realm. They would celebrate their youngest prince, and call for feasts in his name.

Would Loki Jotun-slayer be the next epithet on the Æsir’s lips? Loki Laufey-slayer, Loki Jotun-slayer, Scourge of Jotunheim–

Would they wonder why Loki hadn't finished the job? Would they ask why _they_ couldn't finish it themselves, while leaving the realm itself still standing?

Odin remembered Loki's desperate pleas on the bridge, his boy still foolishly scrambling for a way to die–

– “ _We can still go to war, if you want. Asgard can kill the monsters themselves, like you did, and – and like Thor did. And when they're all gone, you won't need me any more–”_

A dizzying sickness nearly drove Odin to his knees.

He collapsed against a wall, mercifully alone in this stretch of hall, as cold sweat broke over his brow. He thought he might gag.

What would Loki think, to hear those words?

Probably the same thing he would think the first time he heard the people call him “Laufey's slayer”.

Loki would think he had been _right_.

Another wave of sickness swept through Odin, and he closed his eye, trying to gather himself together. The king could not be found in such a state.

As if the Norns were reminding him, Odin began to hear low voices behind him, drawing closer. Odin straightened on unsteady legs, realizing, as he did, where he had wandered – once again, he was close to Loki's rooms.

The voices drew ever-nearer, still too low to make out. Regaining a steady stride, Odin walked in their direction, the fastest route back to his chambers. It was growing late anyway, and Frigga would be wondering where he had gone.

And then an unmistakable voice boomed, “Why not break in? We've done it before – well, the lad snuck out, but it's the same principle–”

“ _Quiet, Volstagg_ ,” Sif's voice hissed. “If your voice doesn't bring the kingdom running–”

“It might bring its king?” Odin interrupted, rounding the corner. Sif and the Warriors Three jumped as one, looking like children caught sneaking out well past bed-time – a habit Thor and Loki were quite fond off. Often with all, or several, of the four before him.

“My King, we were just–” Fandral began, gesticulating wildly.

“Trying to see Loki,” Odin finished off. Frigga had told him of her encounter with the four yesterday.

“If he's well enough to _refuse_ us, that means he must _at least_ be well enough to see us,” Sif insisted, a touch of anger in her voice, which came out in full force in her eyes. It was a ferocity that was more common to her on the battlefield.

Hogun nodded and added, “Volstagg saw him when he was much worse.”

“And perhaps we might even bring news of him to Thor tomorrow!” Fandral said brightly. Under Odin's stare, he amended, “That is, if you allow us to accompany you to Midgard...and if you don't bring news of Loki yourself, I mean, my King.”

“I will be going to see Thor _alone_ tomorrow,” Odin said, and the four visibly deflated. “As for today, if Loki does not want visitors, you must respect his wishes.” All that said...seeing them might do Loki some good. Perhaps if he knew how doggedly his friends fought to see him – even Sif, who had always been as at odds with Odin's youngest as she was companionable with his eldest – Loki's decision might change.

Or perhaps, like the Healers a few days ago, Loki would try to tell them the truth.

Odin was no more ready to test their love of the Jotnar than he was Thor's.

Returning his attention to the four, Odin said, “I believe it is time you four to retired, or shall I call for the guards to escort you?” They withered under his stare and, with a few sulky mutters, slowly wandered back the way they came. Odin watched them leave, ensuring they wouldn't try to double back once they thought his back was turned. Before they rounded the corner, he caught Sif's glance backward, her eyes burning not with anger, but with worry.

Then she caught Odin's eye, and snapped her head to the front as if she had been caught doing something embarrassing.

It was odd, Odin thought. Sif, who had always seemed so antagonistic with Loki, now the one most driven to help. It was much the same with Heimdall, the gatekeeper's animosity vanishing in the face of–

The idea burst through Odin's mind like a bolt from Mjolnir, so suddenly he staggered.

Could a solution be that _simple_?

Could it be that costly?

Loki would hate it. Frigga would rage against it.

But if it worked...it could save Loki's life. In more ways than one.

An energy buzzed through him like seiðr – whether invigorating him or nauseating him, Odin could not tell. He again began returning to his rooms, when, like Sif, he looked back.

Towards where Loki's rooms lay waiting.

_Later,_ he decided, continuing on his way. Later, while he thought on this new, terribly simple plan. And what he might lose in return.

 

_* * *_

 

Odin's dreams were restless, filled with shadows and fear that dissolved when he awoke, leaving only a vague sense of unease. He prayed they were but dreams of a troubled mind, not a gift from the Norns, portending things to come.

Especially on the day he was to see Thor.

Midgard's morning arrived later than Asgard's. Thor's ninth night didn't draw to a close until after Odin had finished his first meeting with his advisers.

And then, it was time for Odin to make good on his oath.

When he first went to inform Frigga of his departure, he found her withdrawn to her tower. He was hardly through the doorway before she spoke, preferring to face the window rather than him.

“Let me come with you, Odin. Let me speak with my son in the flesh.”

Odin sighed. “This is a matter of law. I'm not seeing Thor as his father, I'm seeing him as his _king_.”

“You can afford to be both.” Frigga turned long enough to give him a scornful look. “At least tell him the truth. He deserves to know.”

“That he does, but telling him the truth now would only be cruel. I will tell him once he returns home.”

“I thought we had enough lies in this family already,” Frigga replied stiffly. Before Odin could respond, she said abruptly, “Thor will rise to any challenge you give him. You _will_ see he is worthy, and bring him home to us.” She stared out the window, where the rainbow bridge glinted in the distance, lit by the mid-morning sun.

“I will see only what is there, Frigga.” When he was met by silence, Odin began moving back towards the door, until Frigga's spoke again.

“Remember, you promised you would speak with Loki today.” Frigga half-turned from the balcony, her hair shining like gold where it caught the sun.

Odin nodded, slowly. “I know.” He was not looking forward to it. He still hadn't the faintest idea what to say, when nothing had help so far. Would he be met by Loki's fear this time, or his silence? And if Odin went through with his plan, what could he say to soften the blow?

Frigga gave a small nod in return and turned back to the view. With nothing left to say, Odin walked out.

He could admit to taking his time reaching the bridge, and even reigned in Slepnir from the horse's usual gallop. As much as Odin wished to see Thor himself, it would only mean leaving his son behind again. Though Thor may have grown in his banishment, Odin knew his eldest would still hurt at the apparent rejection, his emotions painted clear across his face where Loki always hid his away.

Odin did not want to lose another son.

Fortunately, Odin had one last delay in store.

As Odin made his way towards the Bifrost opening, he turned to the Gatekeeper keeping pace with him. “Heimdall, I have a question to ask of you.”

Heimdall's golden eyes slid towards him. “Ask away,” he said, not slowing his pace to march up the dias.

Odin took his place at the mouth of the Bifrost. It was strange, standing here for the first time since that night, the Bifrost returned to its typical, mundane use of travel and trade. The possibility of destruction, the urgency and fear Odin had felt that night, were almost erased under its banality. Almost.

Pushing away dark memories, Odin refocused on Heimdall. “What made you change your mind about Loki?” he asked.

“I believe I have already told you.” Heimdall stopped beside the Bifrost mechanism, and when he turned around, his expression was quizzical. “Prince Loki was not the threat to Asgard I believed he was.”

“It is more than that,” Odin insisted. It _had_ to be, if Odin's plan was to succeed. “You went from to attempting to behead him to agreeing to protect him.”

The creases lessened on Heimdall's brow. “He is the prince, your son. And he needs protecting.”

“From what you saw of him on the bridge? And what you see of him now?”

“Of course.” There was a faint surprise in Heimdall's voice. “He is not in his right mind – that much is clear. As I told you, he is more a danger to himself than any in Asgard. And it is my duty to protect Asgard and those who dwell in it.” Heimdall tilted his head. “Is that all, or were you hoping for another answer?”

“No,” Odin said slowly, mulling over Heimdall's words, and if they were enough.

But he hardly had any other choice, did he? In every direction there lay disaster. Only this way, there may be something to recover.

“No,” Odin repeated, “your answer is sufficient, Heimdall. I would ask you call on the ambassadors. I plan to meet with them after I visit Thor.” He turned back to the Bifrost's opening. “Now, take me to Midgard.”

“As you wish,” Heimdall said, and drove his sword into the Bifrost mechanism.

 

_* * *_

 

Odin's boots sunk into sand. The morning sun painted the desert a pale orange, and perhaps a quarter of a league ahead, its gold gleamed between the shadows of a small township. Heimdall must have set him down far away enough to neither disturb the mortals nor cause a ruckus.

Hefting Gungnir, Odin began to walk. Halfway to the town, he shifted his armour and clothing into a pale grey suit, and Gungnir to a sleek wooden cane, both of which he believed were appropriate for the time period. It had been a few decades since he visited Midgard in person, but he seen enough from the Hliðskjálf to know suits remained quite common. His eyepatch dulled to a plain black, a strap reaching across the back of his head to affix it in place.

The township looked much different from this angle, rather than from the lofty gaze of the Hliðskjálf. Still, Odin had no trouble finding his through the wakening streets to the squat glass and stone building where the mortals had welcomed Thor. Avoiding the few mortals who passed by – each of whom glanced at his eyepatch before quickly averting their gaze – Odin came upon the door.

Through the glass, he could see the older woman and the man affixing a meal, the woman sipping from a mug while the man chattered and poked at something in a pan. Of Thor and the younger mortal, Odin could see no sign.

Odin raised his cane and rapped sharply on the door.

The mortals turned as one, the woman clasping a hand to her chest in surprise. Regaining herself, the woman marched quickly to the door and opened it a crack. “Yes?” she asked.

“I am looking for Thor,” Odin said, hoping one of the mortals would lead him to Thor's chambers.

The woman, to his surprise, promptly scowled. “Can't you just leave us alone for _one Goddamn minute_ you useless, equipment-stealing, black-bagging–”

“Thor is my son,” Odin interrupted, and the woman stopped, her mouth forming into a silent _‘Oh’_.

“ _Odin_ ,” the man behind her gasped, eyes wide and mouth agape. There was more than just shock in his expression, but a touch of fear as well. It had been centuries since mortals quailed at the sound of Odin's name. This must be one the old followers, from the lands where Odin and his people once roamed Midgard.

Odin dipped his head to the man. “Aye. Now, if you could lead me to Thor–”

“ _Father_.”

Thor emerged from down the hall. He was pale and dishevelled, his face drawn, with a haunted expression in his eyes.

Rather than the warmth Odin had expected to flood him when he at last saw his son, Odin only grew cold.

Thor had not looked like this from the Hliðskjálf. Was he ill? Had his mortal form began to fail him already?

Or, in Odin's punishment, had he pushed Thor away just as had Loki, until the very _sight_ of Odin was enough to send both his sons into tremors?

Attempting to maintain his composure, Odin turned to face the mortals. “Is there anywhere private we can speak?”

The woman, now flushed red, cleared her throat. “Um, yeah, the roof is, uh...pretty much the only place for that. We'll leave you to it, I guess.” She glanced between Odin and Thor, clutching her mug to her chest like it was a ward protecting her from harm. She didn't move until the male mortal tugged her arm, his fearful eyes still on Odin, and gently pulled her down the hall where Thor had emerged.

Once they left, Odin asked Thor, “I take it you know the way to the roof?” Odin had seen Thor and the mortal woman up there several times, but he had never bothered to examine the layout of the building.

“Aye, it's just through there.” Thor gestured to a door on the right side of the room, though he made no move towards it. Gone was Thor's boisterousness, his exuberance. Even his clothes seemed to have lost some colour, his pants a pale blue and shirt a dull checkered red. When he ran a hand through his mussed hair, Odin noticed a slight tremble in it.

Odin's heart twisted.

“Would you like to lead the way?” Odin suggested, and Thor seem to startle, as if from a stupor.

“Of course, Father,” he answered, and Odin hid a wince at how stilted, how utterly _formal_ his tone was. Thor quickly strode past him – even his step had less of a bounce in it – to the door, holding it open as Odin followed.

They emerged in the morning light to two odd fabric chairs and the remains of a day-old campfire crowding the roof.

Thor settled on the side of the roof, leaning against the wall. It was private, yes, but only from the mortals down below; for the humans on the street, and those black-suited mortals who had a tendency to swarm the building, nothing would stop them from being privy to a few words here and there. Odin cast a small charm about the roof to keep away prying eyes and ears, before likewise seating himself on the side of the roof, a few feet away from Thor.

Thor made no move closer, but stared out at the little Midgardian street. An occasional metal vehicle – automobiles, Odin thought they were called – zipped down the road, crunching gravel and leaving dust in its wake.

“Your mother had wished to be here for this,” Odin started, hoping that would smooth the brittle edge between them. “The only reason she remains absent is that I forbade her.”

“I know, I...” Thor rubbed a hand across his face. When he dropped it, his eyes were weary. “Father, thank-you for seeing me, and for this reprieve,” he said, that damned stilted formality still in place. “I know I have much to learn. After spending time here on Midgard – with Jane and Darcy – and when I thought you _dead_ –” Pain and anger broke across Thor's features, before both were replaced by a deep sorrow.

Odin shifted forward, thinking of some words of comfort – yet what could he say that wouldn't fan the flames of his rage against Loki, and _rightfully?_ – until Thor began speaking again.

“I did not act as prince should,” he said, voice unwavering, jaw set. “I placed my friends in danger, and could have very well done the same for my people. And with everything that happened after I was banished, with the frost giants, and Loki – I could have _helped_ if I had not been so – so–”

Odin interrupted at last. “It is not your fault–” _it was Loki's_ “– and none could have foreseen that Laufey would launch an attack. I kept my coming Odinsleep secret for a reason. Had you been there, it would have made no difference.”

That last was a lie, but Thor didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know it meant Loki wouldn't be on the throne, with the power of the realm at hand to enact his mad plans.

Then again, it could just as well have meant that Thor would have commenced his own destruction of Jotunheim, only with soldiers on the ground rather than with the Bifrost. And while Loki may not have had control, he could have planned something else, something just as drastic. Perhaps something more final.

His youngest was nothing if not resourceful.

A strange look crossed Thor's face. “I don't mean _only_ with Laufey, though. I–” Thor turned away, his hand clutching at the stonework of the building's side. When he faced Odin again, his eyes were full of misery. “I mean, with Loki, and how he...If I was there, with him, maybe I could have _helped him_.”

“Loki's sickness has nothing to do with you,” Odin reassured him, and this time it was at least the truth, even if his next statement was not. “He is well recovered from the last time your friends spoke about him. ”

“No, no, with just...” Thor shook his head, then closed his eyes and sighed. “Mother was right,” he murmured to himself.

Odin frowned. “What do you mean? Frigga was right about what?” Frigga hadn't spoken to Thor since before Odin amended Thor's sentence. What had she told him that was worth waiting nine days to be proven right?

For a long moment, Thor didn't move. When he at last opened his eyes, there was a naked pain in their depths.

“Father,” Thor whispered, “why did Loki try to kill himself?”

_* * *_

 

Loki thought he must have misheard what Mother said. Or perhaps he had blanked out in the middle of the conversation and missed something.

_“Thor is where?_ " he asked, blinking across the couch at her, where she leaned against its arm. Mother had arrived looking worn, helped along by one of her ladies-in-waiting when she had opened the door, and cutting into the time Loki was supposed to spend speaking with the Healers. It wasn't like she was interrupting much, though. Ever since Mother took those books away, Loki found his attention slipping away to nothing. The poor Healers efforts were being wasted on him.

Mother had waved off Loki's worries, explaining that her exhaustion only came from an over-extension of magic. After sinking gratefully into the couch cushions, it had not taken long for her to shed her fatigue once she began to speak.

Now, Mother stopped mid-sentence, head snapping round to look at him with widening eyes. “Do – do you not you remember? Thor was banished to Midgard.”

Loki frowned at the growing alarm on Mother's face. Of course he remembered. “ _Yes, but where is he_ _ **now**_ _?”_ he asked. Hadn't Father brought Thor back when...well, Loki had lost count of the days, but it must have been while he still inside the fog.

Now it was Mother's turn to frown. “He's still on Midgard, where he – by the Norns, have we not told you yet?” she gasped. She didn't wait for Loki's answer before ploughing forward. “Your father changed Thor's sentence. After nine days and nights – today – he would give Thor back his powers and immortality, but he would remain exiled and without Mjolnir until your father deemed him worthy.” The scowl flitting across Mother's lips showed exactly what she thought of that. It disappeared after a moment, when, with conviction in her eyes, she said, “But your father will return him home today.”

Loki didn't doubt the truth of that. He was only surprised it had taken _days_ for Father to decide to bring Thor home. Worthy or not – more likely not – Father wouldn't let Thor languish on Midgard long. He would give Thor back Mjolnir, worthiness clause brushed aside in favour of bringing his true son home.

And if Thor wasn't yet on Asgard...if Thor hadn't been avoiding Loki, then...

Loki swallowed before speaking, but his voice still rasped when he asked, _“Does Thor know?_ _”_

A line creased Mother's brow. She glanced towards Loki's bedroom, where the Healers were waiting to give Loki and Mother privacy, before turning back to him. “No, not yet. Your father will tell him, though. He _must_.”

The relief that had almost crept up on Loki vanished, and the world grew distant, dizzying. A heavy weight settled on his chest. He could hardly be as foolish as to think Mother and Father would continue to keep it a secret from Thor, but...

...but it would have been nice.

Selfish, and cruel, and risking a compounding of Thor's wrath. But nice.

To have Thor back as a brother one last time, before he knew the truth.

Loki must have made some noise, for worry clouded Mother's face, and she drew closer. Her hand reached across the couch until it settled beside his , though she was careful not to touch him. With the same conviction in her voice, she said, “You don't need to worry Loki. Thor _loves_ you. No matter what, you will _always_ be his brother, and nothing in the nine realms will change that.”

Loki smiled and nodded, as his stomach plummeted.

He doubted Thor would see it the same way.

Just as Mother did with Father, she refused to face the truth.

But perhaps...in this case, it wouldn't be for the worst. Not for Loki, or Odin and Thor and – eventually – not for Mother either.

He just hoped Thor wouldn't do it in front of Mother.

 

_* * *_

 

For a moment, Odin could not speak.

Then he flew to his feet, unsure if his heart was racing with fear or anger. “What do you – _how_ did you hear of this?” he demanded.

Unmoving, Thor said simply, “Mother told me.”

Odin inhaled sharply. Frigga wouldn't – she _couldn't_ have let Thor languish with the truth for so long. “You've known for _days_ that–”

“No,” Thor cut in, “just now. Before you came, she appeared to me. She told me about...about that day in the Bifrost. And she said you would lie about it.” Accusation joined the grief in his eyes.

Of course, Odin realized – that was why Frigga had been in her tower, why she had been watching the Bifrost from her window. With her scrying bowl not even half a room away, she had been waiting for Odin to leave Asgard, giving her enough time to speak to Thor without leaving him in confusion for long. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd asked Sif and the Warriors Three exactly how long it took to walk into the town.

“She told you everything? About Laufey and Jotunheim–” Odin stopped himself before he could reveal more, but Thor jerked in surprise, eyes widening before they narrowed in suspicion.

“She told me she did not have time to explain, and that she wished to do it in person. Why? What more is there to know about Laufey and Jotunheim?” Thor at last rose to his feet, still pale, but resolve in his eyes. “What are you not _telling_ me, Father?”

Odin was already shaking his head. What had Frigga been _thinking_ , putting him in this position– “Now is not the time for you to know.”

Those words only fed more fuel to the stubborn light in Thor's eyes. “I accept my continued exile,” he said, voice not yet booming as it had before his banishment, but so much stronger than it had been below. “I accept my punishment for what I did in Jotunheim, and what I almost did to our people for starting the war. But _at least_ tell me what happened that day. If I had been there, if I hadn't been so foolish and–” Thor broke off, though only glanced away for an instant before meeting Odin eye again. “Could I have changed anything? Would Loki have done the same?”

“No fault lays with you, Thor,” Odin only repeated what he said before. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“If the fault doesn't lay with me, then where?” Thor insisted. “What _happened_ , Father?”

“It doesn't matter–”

“Of _course_ of it does–”

“Thor, you will learn it all when you are _ready_ ,” Odin snapped. The words came out harsher than he had expected, so he softened his next. “All I came here to do was restore your powers, and you will–”

“I refuse.”

Odin drew back. “ _What?_ ” he sputtered.

“I refuse the restoration of my powers.” The mulish expression on Thor's face was utterly familiar, but Odin would never have expected those words out of Thor's mouth.

“Thor, if plan to _bargain_ –”

“If you do not think I'm ready to hear about _my own brother_ ,” Thor all but shouted over him, “then how can you think me responsible at all? How can you believe me worthy of my power if you cannot even tell me what is ailing Loki? Or of these secrets you're hiding about Laufey and Jotunheim?”

Odin drew himself up, ready for yet another argument like their one in Bifrost, where Thor _just wouldn't listen_ –

And, as Thor's words soaked in, stopped before he let out a word.

This wasn't the same. Thor wasn't bulling forward, wanting a fight at the cost of everything else. He wanted news, of his brother and his realm, at the cost to _himself_. It was responsibility, not arrogance. Worry, not battle-hunger.

Thor...might be _worthy_.

But no, the hammer hadn't come yet. The spell, when Odin reached out to Mjolnir, remained intact.

Well on the road to worthiness, however...yes, Yes, that was evident. Thor had changed.

Perhaps, now, he was even _ready_.

Frigga had cajoled and pleaded with Odin to tell Thor, and when that didn't work, she had taken matters into her own hands.

_He needs a challenge_ , she had said. _Let him meet it. Let him grow from it._

Odin sat heavily on the side of the roof.

“Father–” Thor began to ask.

“Sit down,” Odin said quietly. “You will want to sit down for this.”

Thor looked wary, but he took a seat across from Odin on one of the chairs near the fire-pit. And, surprisingly, waited for Odin to speak.

Staring down at his hands, Odin wondered how long that patience would last. He had imagined telling his boys the truth a thousand times, until he decided it didn't matter anymore. Half-remembered speeches floated through his memory, ones that started with explaining the war, others that reaffirmed the two were brothers before revealing the truth. All of them meant for boys, not men.

Instead, he blurted out, “Do you remember when first we told you that you had a new brother?”

“Why? What does that have to do with this?” There was a hint of a growl underneath the exasperation in Thor's voice. When Odin stared at him, waiting, Thor shifted his jaw, but answered, “I don't remember it clearly, but...I think it was just after you returned from the war?”

Odin nodded slowly. “That's right. And do you remember you first saw Loki?”

Though exasperation won out in Thor's expression, he still said, “I – there are vague memories. Around the same time, I think? You and Mother kept the pregnancy secret during the war.”

When Odin didn't respond, Thor sighed. “Father, stop playing these games. Please, tell me _the truth_.”

“The truth is...difficult,” Odin admitted. But Thor was right: he had to come out and say it. If Odin continued circling it, they would sit here for hours.

It was almost easier to explain to Loki, after he'd discovered half the truth for himself.

Perhaps he should start where he did with Loki – at the beginning.

“After I defeated Laufey,” Odin began slowly, taking time to gather his words, “I went to retrieve the Casket from the temple, alone. Except the Casket was not the only precious thing I found. There was a child – a babe, no more than a couple days old at most.”

Thor sat up straighter, disbelief in his face. “What – one of _ours?_ How did the Jotnar steal–”

“No, Thor, the child wasn't Æsir.” There was an undercurrent of rage in Thor's voice that had Odin questioning if this was the right decision. But he could hardly turn back now. “The babe was Jotun. A runt, abandoned. And...Laufey's son.”

That had Thor sitting back in his chair. Revulsion warred with pity on his face. “So Laufey murdered his own child? That's – even a Jotun babe deserves–”

“The child was not dead,” Odin cut in. “He had only been left there to die. So I took him home.” Odin's voice began to shake, and he stopped. He knew there was no point in prolonging this. The secret should have crumbled long ago.

Odin took a deep breath, let it go, and met Thor's eyes. “I raised him as my own son.”

Odin watched the blank, shocked incomprehension in Thor's eyes, until the words sunk in, and Thor put it together.

And saw the disgust flood his expression.

Thor surged from his chair as if had burned him, and backed away, shaking his head. “No, no, you can't mean – Loki _isn't_ –”

“He is Laufey's son.” Odin didn't know how he could sound so calm, when inside, dread and dismay raged. This is exactly what he had feared.

“He is my _brother_ ,” Thor shouted, rounding on Odin.

“Yes, he is,” Odin agreed.

Thor turned away, confusion now mingled with the disgust. “Is this another test for me? Or more lies, just as Loki told me–”

“I _am_ telling you the truth, _just_ as you asked,” Odin barked. “Just as I should told have you – both of you – long ago.”

While Thor only shook his head – as if that could block out Odin's voice – Odin stood.

“Loki discovered the truth the day you went to Jotunheim,” he said, his now words flowing so much easier than before. “When I fell into the Sleep, he became regent and sent your friends away. He lured Laufey into Asgard and then killed him. He turned the Bifrost on Jotunheim with the intent to destroy it. And then he–” Odin's voice failed him. These words, apparently, would never be easy. They choked his throat and Thor stared at him, seemingly just as at a loss.

Thor broke the silence first.

“Father, I – I don't understand. Why are telling me these...these...these _lies?_ What do you want me to prove?”

There was desperation in his eyes. Maybe it would be better if Odin left at this – a lie, a test–

But no, that was cowardice.

Leaning on Gungnir, the spear still a cane, Odin quietly said, “I told you, Thor, this is the truth. Loki was born Laufey's son–”

“No, _no_ ,” Thor insisted. “Loki _can't be_ –”

“And is he more our family than he ever was Laufey's.” Odin spoke as if Thor hadn't. “Despite his blood, he is as much my son as you are, and as much _your brother_ as he has _always_ been.”

Thor could only stare, mouth agape. He shook his head and turned away, hand coming up to rub down his face, before he sat heavily on the roof's side.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the wind blowing across the rooftop, and the distant noise of the mortals going about their lives below.

Thor remained uncomprehending, denying.

Perhaps Odin had been wrong.

“I should have realized, you weren't yet ready for the truth,” Odin said softly, regretfully. And, he hoped, not unkindly. He began to head towards the door. “If you want, I can still return to you your power–”

“Wait.”

Odin turned back.

“Loki tried to kill himself,” Thor whispered to the ground. “He tried to kill himself because he was Jotun.” He raised his head, his eyes lost. “Because he was Laufey's son.”

Odin swallowed. “Yes,” he said. The word trembled.

Thor blinked, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a faint moan. As Thor closed his eyes, bending his head once again, a small, pained noise escaped his throat. He brought his hand up towards his face, thumb and fingers reaching across to cover his eyes.

His body was shaking as much as Odin's hands.

Odin didn't know what to say. His words hadn't helped Frigga.

What words could soothe _this_ pain?

Haltingly, Odin crossed the distance, and sat down beside Thor. He wrapped an arm across his boy's shoulder, holding him there, feeling Thor's shaking in his bones.

When the sobs became audible, Odin held his son closer.

He waited until the tears dried out, until he and Thor sat there in empty silence. Slowly, Thor's hand dropped from his face to clench the stone ledge.

Eventually, Thor spoke. “I – I don't know what to do,” he rasped. “This is – Loki is – I don't know what to do about it.”

Neither _do I,_ Odin thought. Instead, he said, “Your mother and I are helping Loki through it. It has been...a challenge. He is still recovering.”

Thor nodded, staring down at the ground. Otherwise, he didn't respond.

Odin sighed. “Thor, I – your mother and I should have told you the truth much earlier. We should have told both of you the truth.” Those words sounded like an endless refrain to his ears by now. “I had planned to do so once your exile from Asgard had ended, when I had more time. When you had Frigga and myself with you. However, I...” This was not what Odin wanted. He couldn't leave Thor like this.

But it was time to be a king, not a father.

He gritted his teeth, and said, “I have spent too much time here on Midgard already. I can't stay here much longer.” Odin stood, sliding his hand from around Thor's shoulders. “If it is still your wish, I will restore your powers, and then I must return to Asgard.”

Thor nodded again, distantly. His gaze had moved from the ground to his hands. “I thought we could have killed all the Jotnar, together,” he murmured, voice caught somewhere between shock and horror. “I thought they were monsters. I've told _Loki_ that they were monsters.”

Odin barely managed to hide a flinch. “You didn't know. Neither of you did.” _And I should have said more, done more, to stop it._

Thor just slumped in his seat. If he'd heard Odin, he didn't show it. He only looked out at the horizon, at the sands and the sun beyond the edges of the town.

Odin felt the change in the air, the _snap_ of seiðr before he knew what had happened.

He had the good sense to step back as a sharp whistling filled the air.

The bright light engulfed Thor the instant Mjolnir slapped into his palm.

Odin shielded his eye with his hand. When at last the light dimmed, Thor's drab Midgardian clothes had vanished, replaced by the armour and cape as resplendent as the day Thor was meant to be crowned.

And yet, in their midst, Thor only looked down at himself with bewilderment.

“What – what did I do?” Thor asked, looking to Odin for answers. “Did you – did you give me back my powers?”

“No, Thor, it wasn't me,” Odin said, quiet awe accompanying the smile he knew was spreading across his face. It felt like he hadn't smiled since before his boys rushed into Jotunheim. It felt like _relief_.

Was that all it took? One quiet, unvoiced thought, one small, unknown decision–

Except, Odin realized with a jolt, he knew exactly what it was. He should have known it sooner.

His spell on Mjolnir laid its foundation in what Odin considered worthy. And once it occurred to Odin that Thor could scorn Loki once he knew the truth, the spell had responded in kind – worthy meant accepting Loki as his brother, Jotun or not.

And Thor wouldn't even know to accept his brother until he was told.

Unless Frigga had guessed the same, it seemed she had been more right than she knew. Thor could have been _all but_ worthy for days, learning from his mortal companions, a new sense of responsibility spurred inside him, and Odin just hadn't seen it.

Odin lay his hand on Thor's shoulder. Feeling like a knot of strain in his chest had vanished, he said, “It's time to come home, Thor.”

“I – I will,” Thor breathed out, glancing down at Mjolnir as if he still couldn't believe it. “I just...I just need to say farewell, to Jane. And her friends.”

 

_* * *_

 

Loki anticipated the news when, after the messenger's whispered words at the door, Mother's face erupted in a smile. One brighter than he'd seen since Thor's failed coronation.

She rushed back to Loki's side, eyes shining with delight. “Your brother is back in Asgard. He's coming to see you.”

Thor must not have been told then, Loki decided, otherwise he wouldn't come to see Loki first thing.

Unless he had been told. And he only had one purpose in coming to see Loki so soon. In that case, Loki was sure he could convince Thor that ridding Asgard of Laufey's spawn would be better done elsewhere.

But if Thor didn't know, if he still remained blissfully ignorant...then he couldn't stay that way. If Mother didn't tell him, then Loki would have to.

It would be a kindness to Thor.

He waited as Mother paced, her frantic energy spilling off her. For once, Loki didn't find himself drifting away. His heartbeat in his chest kept time, and it seemed too few beats had passed when a knock sounded at the door.

Mother was rushing forward before Loki could even think of standing. The door swung open. Loki glimpsed silver and red, and then, as the door clicked shut, Mother was enveloping the hulking shape in a hug.

It felt like a hand had closed around Loki's throat.

Achingly slow, Loki made his way to his feet. He willed himself towards the door. Beyond Mother's figure, Loki could see the top of Thor's tangle of blond hair, the rest of his head buried against Mother's shoulder. His silver, armoured arms wrapped around Mother's shoulders, and the bright red spill of his cape blocked the rest of the entryway. Loki lost track of Mother and Thor's words, adrift in a cacophony of cries. Mother's voice was tear-filled, and Thor's low rumble was laden with relief, not anger – but that could just be because of Mother.

Loki's heart beat in his ears. Through the rush of blood, snatches of Mother's words came into focus.

“...was so worried...your father is just so _bullheaded_...”

Loki missed Thor's reply, watching as Thor pulled back from Mother's embrace, though his hands still gripped her shoulders. He looked the same as the day he was banished, the day of his coronation. His smile was as bright as his eyes, as joyous Mother's.

Mother was speaking again. “...what I had to do ensure he brought you home.”

“ _Mother, it's alright. I–”_

In between one breath and the next, Thor's eyes drifted towards Loki. His expression froze, and Loki's blood ran cold.

Thor _must_ know. The way he stared at Loki, his eyes intense, uncertain, searching Loki's face...

_Searching for the monster beneath–_

But no, his face held no anger, no revulsion. He hadn't reached for Mjolnir at his belt. Perhaps he was simply gawking at how thin Loki had grown, at the gaunt cheeks that Loki had seen in the mirror before Mother had them all covered.

When Loki felt a hand at his elbow he flinched away, but it was only Mother. She quickly dropped her hand, though not her look of concern as she stared at Loki.

“Do you want me dismiss the Healers, so we can speak in private?” she asked, and even her worry couldn't dim the hope in her eyes. Loki didn't want to take that from her, but how could he let Thor go on in ignorance? Yes, dismiss the Healers, and let Thor know the _truth_.

Except Loki couldn't speak. Words piled up in his throat, suffocating him, and he couldn't let them out.

He didn't want to tell Thor.

He didn't want Thor to pull Mjolnir from where it hung easily at his belt, and bring it down on Loki’s skull. For the hatred and disgust in Thor's eyes to be the last thing he saw.

_Let me die some other way, please–_

“ _Loki,”_ Thor said, and, cape rippling behind him, moved further inside the room.

Loki stepped back. The gold contraption supporting his foot _clicked_ against the floor, and Thor's gaze snapped down. Confusion clouded his face.

“ _Loki, your leg...”_

When Loki said nothing – could say nothing – Mother answered for him. “It was the Bifrost. He was on the edge, while was active...”

Loki let the explanation slip by him. Mother was probably telling Thor whatever story she and Father had spun for the Healers – she wouldn't risk more until they were alone.

No, Loki needed to muster his courage, force the words past the choke-hold on his throat.

_(Cowardly, weak, Jotun, can't even manage to **speak** – )_

He had gathered a sentence, to tell Mother _yes, yes dismiss the Healers now_ , when he saw _it_.

If his magic weren't suffocated, he would have recognized _it_ sooner, but _it_ was still there. Emblazoned on Mjolnir's head, the rune that meant only one thing.

_Worthy_.

Thor was _worthy_.

“ _You,”_ he growled.

Mother and Thor stopped talking and stared. Thor tipped his head, perplexed. Acting so naive about his own superiority – as if Thor didn't _flaunt_ it at every turn, bolstering his _arrogance_ with the cheers of Asgard, with Father's approval, with that _damned, worthy hammer_ –

Loki's fist lashed out before he could think.

He already knew it wouldn't land well – even if his leg didn't leave him off-balance, even if his limbs weren't sluggish, he had still barely eaten or moved for days.

Sure enough, Thor easily dodged his attempt, catching Loki's wrist before Loki could draw his hand back.

Thor gaped. Mother gasped,“ _Loki–”_

Loki's other fist caught Thor just above his jawbone.

Thor's head snapped back, his grip on Loki's hand loosened, and Loki launched himself forward.

“ _No matter what,”_ he howled, raining fists down where he could, on what little of Thor wasn't armoured. “ _No matter what you do – you're always the_ ** _worthy_** _son–”_

Mother was shouting, Thor's mouth was moving, but Loki heard none of it. He barely heard what was coming out of his own mouth as Thor ducked and dodged his blows. Loki wished he would hit back.

How could Loki have ever doubted Father would find Thor _worthy_. Especially with Loki in comparison.

Everything always came so _easy_ to Thor, _always_ the golden son, and now it takes mere _days_ for Father to think Thor is no longer a war-mongering, impulsive idiot, that after a fleeting jaunt on Midgard he's ready for the throne.

Where Loki was given shackles and confinement, Thor was raised up high.

Exactly where they both should be.

Loki didn't know when his shouts dissolved into sobs. He was suddenly breathless, face wet, and his hands had lost their strength.

Firm arms latched around him from behind, dragging him backwards, and Loki let them. Healers Lis and Kajsa were hurrying past him, while Mother stood with Thor at the doors. Her face was distraught as she watched. Thor only stood there, bewildered and hurt.

The arms, clad in the golden braces of the Einherjar, carried Loki backwards into his bedroom. As the Einherjar deposited him gently on the bed, he could here Mother saying, “I'm so sorry, Thor, I didn't think that he–”

The two Healers pulled the door closed behind them, cutting off Mother's voice. Loki slumped against the pillows, defeated. The anger, the urge to _hurt_ , had evaporated as soon as it had come over him. He didn't fight as Healer Lis cautiously offered him a glass of drugged water.

_Worthy_.

He didn't even know why he had felt such rage at finding out Thor was the _worthy_ son. It was a fury that belonged to another time, when he was blessedly ignorant, when he thought himself Father's _real_ son. When there was a reason to struggle and scheme his way to _proving_ he was Thor's equal.

No Jotun was anywhere near equal to the _least_ of the Æsir, let alone the prince.

Why _wouldn't_ Thor be _worthy?_

All it showed was that Mother was wrong – all this time Mother had been trying to tell Loki that Father loved him, and if the throne wasn't enough, here was more proof in front of them. How could she not _see_ it?

Loki drained the last of the drugged water, and waited as darkness closed over him.

No, Loki knew what he was to Father. Father had said it himself.

_Nothing._

 

_* * *_

 

Odin knew he had more or less abandoned Thor at the gates. He wouldn't be there when Frigga regained both her sons, or when Thor looked on Loki with his new knowledge. He still wouldn't see Loki, or struggle to find words that wouldn't make everything worse.

But he had spent much longer on Midgard than he had anticipated, especially since Thor insisted on several prolonged farewells with the mortals, while Odin did his best to give them privacy. Even so, as Thor rushed out the door to join Odin, he heard Thor promise the older woman he would return. Certainly Odin would have to find some reward for the mortals, but he had not considered Thor bringing it himself.

It was something Odin would have to address later, when this was all over with. For now, the ambassadors would be waiting, and he would rather they remained in a good mood.

Odin would rejoin his family soon enough. This meeting would not take long.

“King Odin,” Kvasir greeted him first, leading the Álfar and Dwarf to give short, curt nods.

Odin acknowledged them in turn. “Thank-you, ambassadors, for meeting me on such short notice,” he said.

“Yes, you said it was urgent?” Volundr asked, an eyebrow raised. Irpa still said nothing, her face drawn in a frown.

“It is,” Odin agreed. “I have been thinking over our last conversation, and I have come to a conclusion.”

“And what is that?” Irpa finally spoke up, a mocking lilt to her voice.

“What you wanted, Ambassador Irpa,” Odin said, ignoring her tone. “I have decided it is time we held a trial. Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the first couple semesters of my graduate degree took me off guard, and I still have at least two semester left :/ The good news is that this coming semester, I'll have a better idea of how to manage my schoolwork to household chores to fic-writing ratio. The next chapter may also take less time to release *fingers crossed*, because when I was writing my outline for this fic as a whole, I ended up writing pretty much a whole draft of the next chapter. But, being realistic about my writing speed, I wouldn't start waiting on the next chapter until at least New Years Day *sigh* Sorry, all :(


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